The Chain Unbroken
by inkblottales
Summary: Follows the events of POTO. Erik is the architect of his own destiny - or so he thinks. Will Christine breach his defenses? Will the enemies who wish to destroy him succeed? Completed story.
1. Erik

A s said in the summary, this is a completed story.

Still nothing would be possible without the help of two ladies, Desiree and TOWDNWTBN (The-One-Who-Does-Not-Wish-To-Be-Named).

I also need to thank all the people who helped this story's completion with their comments and reviews. Virtual hugs!

Of course I don't own POTO, but Erik Rochelle?

**CHAPTER 1- Erik**

_Dear Monsieur Rochelle,_

I'm happy to inform you that the unfortunate child you sought to look after is not only a happily married vicomtesse, whom I frequently meet at social events with her adoring husband, but also a mother-to-be. It is said that the couple is delighted with the news, and this is the reason their social appearances are reduced lately. The baby is expected by the end of November. I hope this news serves to alleviate your worries about her hastily arranged marriage.

_Always at your service,_

_François Duval.  
_

_**July 15**_

I crumpled up the letter from M. Duval, the lawyer I had generously paid to take care of my remaining affairs once I had left Paris. It was all a sham. I left no affairs there for him to take care of. However, I did pay him to send me a monthly report, informing me of the news and the whereabouts of a late friend's (another lie) daughter, Christine Daaé, who had gotten married five months before. Discretion was of the essence because I owed my friend the debt of watching over his orphaned child. How wicked of me!

Till now, the reports had been poor of news since the happy couple was enjoying a long honeymoon out of France. This "unclouded" happiness was secured and proven now through this small piece of parchment.

How had I not foreseen this happening? Why didn't I spare myself this knowledge? Am I my own worst enemy? Did I think that there would only be walks in the park, picnics in the sun, and parties for them? Even thinking of these, all I could never share with her, was painful enough – but a child, so soon?

The hunger of the nobleman fop couldn't wait at all.

I have waited for so long, all my life for her, even after she left me. And although it was hopeless and stupid of me, I waited. The few days before the quick, almost secret wedding, I had been at the de Chagny estate, outside her window like an old, ugly, pathetic dog begging for a bone, waiting for the sight of her, for a sign indicating she had changed her mind or that she had doubts. I was so careless and fortunate at the same time that only Madame Giry found me trembling with rage after the ceremony. I felt like burning the whole church down, tearing it into pieces. Instead, I stood there, motionless, looking at them. There had never been a more graceful bride or a more beautiful couple. I'm not too blind to see it. Not to my advantage, I have the skill to differentiate between beauty and the lack of it. They looked perfect, shining and satisfied, the exact opposite of me. The boy was unexpectedly clever. He married her hastily, afraid that I wouldn't keep my word. He was right. Even their wedding vows mean nothing to me. But now she's expecting a child. She has the dream of her life, a family, a life filled with him. Her chains are no longer mine, even though I still feel those chains. They are burning me!

Madame Giry was my truest ally. In return for her services, I let her stay in a house I'd purchased some years ago in a remote area just outside of Paris. It was the least I could do for the woman who had kept my secrets and lost her whole world during my despicable attempt to prove to myself that I was a man.

_**July 30**_

England is my home now.

I bought a cottage in the country four months ago with the help of M. Pineaut, my accountant in France. I've been lucky to find it on such short notice. The fact that no one wanted it for almost ten years helped, too. Although it's a two-story, four-bedroom cottage with a lovely lake very close to the house, there is a rumor that it's haunted. If I were the type of person who laughed easily, I would have laughed a great deal over this.

It appears that an old spinster inhabited this cottage, located conveniently near her married sister's cottage across the lake, the Twin House. The two estates were joined together to form a larger one when the married sister became a childless widow. The women were without any family, except for a nephew with a bad reputation and unsavoury habits.

The two sisters lived together for a few years until one day a maid found them both brutally murdered. Their blood soaked the front door, and as the story goes, no brush could take it away; no paint or polish could cover it no matter how hard one tried. So they were forced to paint the front door a deep red color, and in the village, where a good scandal or gossip is always appreciated, the house has been known as the Red Door Cottage ever since. Nobody from the village or even the nearest town wanted to own the isolated estate because of the rumors that the ghosts of the two old ladies who died a cruel, unavenged death still lurked about. Now _I _am the owner of the Red Door Cottage. No one dares to step inside. How unfortunate for my social life!

_**August 5**_

I don't know why I'm writing these letters since there's no one to read them but me. Maybe it's because I can't write music anymore - not decent music anyway. It's not that I don't try. I fill the sheets, one after the other, with mediocre nonsense, which insults me with its vulgarity.

Am I going mad? What is madness anyway? And what is sanity? Who defines their borders?

I've left small things of hers - her belongings. Not many. Maybe one or two in every room. Maybe fewer. When they catch my eye during the day, I feel for an instant, for the space of a heartbeat, that she's in the kitchen, and left her book on the sofa, or she's outdoors, and left her gloves inside. They are such sweet seconds. Little images of what life would be if she were with me, if she chose me, if we shared the same life. I'm not crazy - I don't pretend she's _really _outdoors; I wouldn't go so far as to bring her the gloves. I don't talk to her. What would I say? I'm just pretending…

Can you blame a man using any means to survive?

_**August 10**_

I can't remember a more intense physical pain in my life than the headache I'm having. I wish I had a sip – or, much better, a cup of that strong bitter coffee I was drinking in Venice. That could cure my headache better than that light-colored liquid the peasants here call tea, which, incidentally, I am already out of as well.

When the illness - an unwanted reminder of the days in Persia - comes on, I usually am warned. I have light fever and shivers and feel weak for days before I actually get feverish and lose any recollection. These are the signs I recognize that tell me to prepare my potions. It's how I have taken care of myself all these years. Besides, when the disease appears, it makes me ridiculously weak. It's the same disease that leaves my body slowly recovering for days, cold as a corpse, my blood not good enough to warm my body.

Can a man die from weariness? Sometimes I feel so very tired…too tired to breathe, too tired to open my eyes. I spend endless days looking at the ceiling of my new bedroom. Was it in this room that the former owner so cruelly faced her death? Ironically, even the ghosts have left me alone…

And yet there is that rage, the only thing that keeps me alive, that pumps the blood through my veins. My rage is like poison in my blood, but this poison doesn't kill me. It only destroys what I love, what makes my life worth living.

In the history of lost causes, the one dearest to me was the one with the least chance in the world of coming to fruition. How could I have ever hoped to have something more with Christine? Christine would never have been able to see past my misshapen face. She would never have been happy with me. She could never have been my companion in life, because my life was meant to be lived alone.

At last, a strange kind of peace comes over me. This realization leaves me calmer than I ever could have expected to be. I take the responsibility for my actions, for everything that happened. I lost my opera house, my temple of music. I'm the only one to blame. Not Christine, not even her imbecilic husband. I am the genius. I should have prevented all of this from happening. The puppeteer cannot blame the puppets if the play turns to a disaster.

My misery is not meant to be shared. It is not love I'm feeling. Love could not have caused such harm, such fear and terror for her. This is an obsession I'll cure myself of.  
How plain and simple it is, and how blind I have been.

I know what I have to do to put my dream to rest, to control my unrealistic obsession. I've done it before, and it worked. I also know what needs to be done to set_ her _free, to let her breathe in her new life. The decision is made, and it's final. At last I've gained control over my fate again. I'm not to be ruled by anyone, not even my own illusions. I have a plan which will leave everyone relieved. Life will go on. The Erik I was is no more.


	2. Letters and lies

I want to thank everyone who read and reviewed, or just read this story so far. It means a lot to me!

I especially want to thank all the members of TWS who supported this story in so many ways.

Still, it wouldn't exist without Desiree and TOWDNWTBN (The-One-Who-Does-Not-Wish-To-Be-Named), emphasis on "wished"- it's not Lord Voldemort!

**CHAPTER 2 -Letters and lies**

_Monsieur Duval:_

_Words fail to properly express how moved I was when I heard the news you provided.  
Your letter was a true revelation! _

_Your services have been invaluable to me; the debt I owed to my old friend is paid, and it will not be necessary for you to continue to provide further reports regarding the de Chagnys. I believe the sum I gave as a deposit should generously cover the expenses for your services to date. You may keep the rest as a bonus for the great news._

_Sincerely,_

_Erik Rochelle_

_Monsieur Pineaut:_

_I am enclosing five letters for you to deliver, as well as a list outlining financial instructions. Madame Giry's financial arrangement will go on as previously instructed. However, along with delivering her letter, I wish for you to raise her monthly income as indicated in the enclosed list. Monsieur Chan's and Monsieur Duval's letters do not need any care from you, other than making sure they are delivered personally into their hands. The other two letters, to Monsieur Alexander Arnaud in Constantinople and Signor Rubelli in Venice, will be sent to your office. In my letters, I inform them that you'll be in charge of their payments. If Signor Rubelli has any questions or requests, I want to be informed about them through your office since I wish my recent address to remain private. _

_Erik Rochelle_

_Daroga,_

_This is the last time you'll hear from me. I have decided to set you free from the worries I've caused you. Do not jump to stupid conclusions. I'm well - better than I have been for a long time. It's time for me to leave everything and everyone behind.  
I want you to post the announcement of my death in the paper. Be as brief as possible. No details, no explanation needed. I dare to believe it will be the first time a death announcement will bring so much relief to so many people._

_Erik_

P.S. Madame Giry has been informed, and will keep her silence.

Walking the fields of his estate, exploring the area he now owned, and mentally marking the damage that years of neglect and abandonment had wrought on the property was Erik's favourite activity. However, walking along the lane towards the village - the rare occasions it was required - was hardly a desirable pastime, and it had nothing to do with the beauty of the landscape.

During the first months of his lonely residence at the Red Door Cottage, he had the chance of appreciating the fresh air, the color of the grass, and the warmth of the occasional bit of sunshine. Although these were benefits his former life had totally denied him, Erik found himself extremely reluctant to adjust to his new environment. He preferred the darkness, and it took him almost two months to open the heavy curtains and let the daylight flow victoriously into the rooms he occupied.

Living in the country was slowly growing on him, even if he had always considered city life his first and ultimate choice. In the crowded streets of Venice, Constantinople, or Paris, he was capable of walking unnoticed, becoming one with the shadows of the alleys. He enjoyed shopping in the market without raising suspicion among the other nameless, faceless customers. In the small streets of the village, the new, nervy owner of the Twin Cottages would make good gossip, even if he weren't a Frenchman and didn't wear a mask.

The long years residing in the Opera house made interacting with people even more difficult than it had been before, and in his few encounters with the villagers, he found them to be ignorant, impolite people. Among the few exceptions was Mr. Hamilton, the owner of an antique shop, who earned a living trading in almost everything. He was a man in his thirties who, for unknown reasons, committed himself to maintaining this antique business among the peasants instead of pursuing a better fortune elsewhere. Even though Mr. Hamilton's motives for staying in the village were hardly Erik's concern, he often found himself wondering why the man had chosen such a lot in life.

One of his redeeming qualities was that Mr. Hamilton seemed to appreciate beauty and quality. Erik noticed that, surprisingly, Mr. Hamilton avoided staring at his mask after the first time he noticed it under the fedora. The man was smart, accurate in his accounting, seemed honest enough, and he never delayed an order beyond reason. He also offered to handle Erik's occasional correspondence, handing all letters to Jamie, Mrs. Oliveer's son, to deliver to Erik.

Mrs. Oliveer was the owner of the closest grocery store in the village, and unlike Mr. Hamilton, she wasn't the honest, well-mannered shopkeeper who cared about her products and her clients. While Mr. Hamilton always remembered what a client bought the last time he was at his store and asked him whether he was satisfied with the quality of the product, Mrs. Oliveer didn't give a damn as long as the customer paid the price she was asking.

Her store was a small, quite narrow room, which was ironically appropriate for a narrow-minded woman like Mrs. Oliveer. The floor was sticky, and almost everything on the shelves was covered in dust. For Erik, the covering of dust was a good indication as to the freshness of the products. Although he was out of everything edible, which was the only reason he had decided on a trip to the village in the first place, he wasn't in need of many things. Bread and cheese and perhaps some dried meat would be sufficient to sustain him for weeks. He made his order quickly, and watched as the middle-aged woman disappeared into a room to gather part of it.

Her son, Jamie, was sitting on the floor a few steps away from Erik's feet, playing with something made out of wrapping paper. A second glance revealed that he didn't actually play, but merely threw a ball of paper from one hand to the other, totally concentrated on the task as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. He was the filthiest child Erik had ever laid eyes upon, providing one more reason to despise his mother. His hair was of an indescribable color because of the mud that was caked in it. The same mud was all over his face. His clothes were torn in places -mostly around the knees - and were, of course, covered with uncountable layers of dirt. Erik could not guess if the ugly smell was coming from the boy or the equally dirty dog that lay asleep at his feet, but made a mental note not to let the child touch his parcels.

He was starting to feel sick standing in the confined room, watching the boy continue his silent game. For a moment, Erik wondered if the boy was deaf or stupid or had some other sort of incapacity that prevented him from acting like a normal child. His mother's sudden cry from the other room seemed to motivate him to stand up and look around. He looked at Erik, surprised, as if he hadn't noticed him before, and a faint smile appeared on his face. Erik could almost swear he saw a sparkle of intelligence in his eyes and that smile, but the expression instantly changed to a worried one.

"Come here, you useless, lazy blockhead! Where did you put the dried meat? I have been looking for hours down here! Come here, you, before I go up there and show you…"

Her harsh voice was an insult to Erik's ears. Jamie ran to the room downstairs, and seconds later, his mother was standing by the counter with a poor excuse of a smile on her face, showing the equally poor condition of her teeth.

"Is that all, sir? Perhaps you'd like some fruit. I have fine green apples, some apricots, and pears, of course," she said, her prying eyes staring at his mask.

"Just wrap my order, if you please," he growled. His patience with this woman was wearing thin. Erik made a silent vow not to choose her store again except in case of extreme need. He heard the brass bell jingling as someone opened the door behind him. Making sure that his fedora concealed his face fully, he quickly ducked his head and turned to leave. His intentions to make a hasty exit failed as he recognized Mr. Hamilton's voice.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Rochelle. I'm so lucky to happen upon you here! Your order is ready. It has arrived just today." His broad smile indicated he was extremely proud of himself for the early delivery he'd managed.

Erik expressed his appreciation with a nod. The young man's face clouded, and he wrung his hands nervously as he continued. "Unfortunately, my cart will be out of use the following couple of days. Do you want some of the stuff immediately? All of the items are too heavy for one person to carry. Otherwise I'd bring them myself today."

Erik started to find Mr. Hamilton's eagerness to help almost annoying, as he usually picked up his orders himself. He wondered about the sincerity of his words and the amount of his curiosity. He knew that nobody from the village dared to enter his estate because of the ghost rumors, and for that reason he had made a sort of mailbox just inside the front gate of the Red Door Cottage. When someone wanted to leave a letter or a parcel, he had to open the gate and leave it at the box. That was the only act of bravery required. Upon the gate's being opened, a bell rang inside the house to inform Erik of visitors. Once, he had been standing by the window when the bell rang, and his eye caught sight of Jamie as he opened the gate and entered with small hesitant steps. The boy was the only one who had visited the house as of yet, and Erik didn't want to change that to satisfy some gentleman's curiosity.

"There's no need to carry anything, Mr. Hamilton. I'll take them myself in three to four days if you allow me the use of your cart. I'll bring it back the same day," Erik said.  
His anxiety was rising again, and the need to escape the room was causing his face to flush. Mrs. Oliveer decided it was time to interrupt and offer her help.

"Jamie could give you a lift if you'd like to have your stuff today, for a reasonable price, of course." Her voice was full of anticipation of extra money.

Erik decided that such an offer might present a great opportunity for him. He wouldn't need to come again in four days' time and bring back the borrowed cart. He looked out of the window to the setting sun, feeling angry with himself. His apprehension of the visit to the village had forced him to make a late start, and it would be early evening by the time they'd arrive back at the Red House Cottage. He was very comfortable walking in the dark, but he did not imagine that the little boy would feel the same having to return home alone.

"Thank you, Mrs. Oliveer, but isn't it too late for your son to wander about with the cart?"

"If I trust the little devil not to damage my cart, you can trust him, too, sir," she said, sarcasm evident in her voice.  
Her cold tone as she talked about her son and her lack of concern for his safety were difficult for Erik to endure.  
He instinctively straightened his shoulders, towering over her. It seemed his tall frame alone had a threatening effect on her, and she cowered behind the counter. He continued in what he hoped to be a polite manner.

"If your son has no problem with the arrangement, I'll pay you for the trouble."

Three pairs of eyes stared at the boy who was leaning against the door with a blank expression on his face. His mother looked at him sternly, silently daring him to object.  
Trying to read something behind Jamie's expression, Erik quickly concluded that the boy could easily be as stupid as he looked, and sadly shook his head. Given the present situation, he decided that he would like to postpone his next trip to the village for as long as possible, so he added more food supplies to his order, including fruit and some biscuits, and fixed a delivery price with Jamie's mother.

While Mrs. Oliveer prepared the new order, the bell jingled once more, and this time, the village's vicar entered the tiny, already crowded room. The old man greeted each one of them by name, including Erik.

"I don't recall seeing you at church, Mr. Rochelle," said the vicar in a reprimanding tone.

Erik inhaled slowly, trying to contain himself. He was certain he hadn't met the vicar before.

"And you can bet you won't," he hissed and stormed out of the confined space in a fury. Slamming the door behind him, he heard the vicar mumbling something about letting the dead rest in peace while Jamie stared at the old man with fear.

Erik walked as fast as he could, putting more distance between himself and the insolent people behind him. He walked with long, angry strides, his boots making an uncharacteristically loud noise on the street. He didn't care. He just didn't care anymore. What could these miserable people do to him? Disgust him to death? What had he been seeking when he moved to this filthy village? Did he actually expect to ever belong and be a true member of the human race? Did he honestly believe that Christine would think better of him if he became one of them? Talking with them was torment enough!

He stopped walking, feeling his knees trembling, and his eyes clouded. He heard his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead and his upper lip. His mask was getting uncomfortably hot upon his flushed skin. He entered a shadowed alleyway and leaned against the wall. This had to stop. He had to think of something. He'd rather to starve to death than repeat this ordeal. Drawing some deep breaths, he tried to shove away the images of the walls closing around him - Mrs. Oliveer's calculating high-pitched voice, her yellowed teeth showing through her fake smile. His face was burning. He removed his gloves and cooled his exposed cheek with his cold palm. Erik felt that if he'd stayed one more minute in that miserable store, he would have passed out, drowned by the moist, filthy air, the appalling voices, the indescribable smell. Some more deep breaths seemed to slowly calm his clouded mind and his uneven breathing. What was happening to him? Was he meant to become a shadow of his former self? He straightened his body, and checked his mask and fedora once more, making sure they were in place. It was neither the time nor the place for self-pity. Measures needed to be taken.

Half an hour later, every parcel and package was securely placed in Mrs. Oliveer's cart. Jamie's dog was lying among them, already asleep. Erik had never actually seen this dog walk, run, or even bark.  
Jamie was already sitting, holding the reins of the mare, and Erik climbed onto the seat next to him, concealing his mask from the boy's sight.  
His mother's voice had a strange tone when she mumbled some threats towards her son in case anything happened to the horse. It sounded as if she had been drinking - a habit that could easily be the reason for her constant red nose and bloodshot eyes.

The ride to the Red Door Cottage was a silent one, and Erik, for the first time in six months, felt as if he were returning home. The daylight was not gone yet, and the night was going to be quiet and bright, with a full moon and a clear sky above them. At the beginning of the journey, the boy was nervous. He jumped at every noise they heard that was different from the familiar trample of hooves, looking behind him or around him with narrowed eyes, as though expecting something ghostly to appear at any moment.

Erik tried to find a way to comfort his worried companion, but could think of nothing, so he remained silent. The horse's pace was slow, which was either his driver's choice or a result of its own age. Although irritated at first, Erik gradually calmed down and savored the beautiful night. His young companion seemed to eventually relax, too, even though Erik expected him to become more anxious as they came closer to the Red Door Cottage.

They had just caught a glimpse of the house when Erik heard Jamie's voice for the first time. He realized he hadn't heard it before, and it was a soft, little shaky whisper.

"There's the cottage, sir," he said as he pointed with his hand.

The moon was rising behind it, spreading an unearthly light on the plain building.  
Erik nodded.

"Do you want me to take you inside?"

Erik understood the boy's apprehension. Riding to the Red Door Cottage was one thing. Entering the house or being there with his mysterious owner was another.

"It would be easier. For otherwise, I would have to make many trips to carry all this stuff from the gates to the cottage." Easier was an understatement. It would take him half an hour back and forth, carrying all the parcels in. "But if you'd like, you can wait here while I drive the cart inside and unload it. I will bring it back to you as quickly as possible." He used his soothing voice to calm the boy, and seemed to have succeeded - until the boy's expression changed as he suddenly remembered.

"Mother will kill me if I leave the horse…"

"I'm sure she didn't mean that," Erik replied, gritting his teeth.

"Perhaps, but she'll surely beat me." He seemed to be in deep thought about his next move. His fear of his mother and his fear of the ghosts were joined in battle. Suddenly, a cloud crossed the boy's face as he looked up into Erik's face.

"Did Jane and Gillian do that?" he asked as he lifted his hand and pointed at the mask.

"Who did what?" Erik was at a total loss as to what the boy meant. For a moment, his former opinion regarding Jamie's questionable intelligence came back to his mind.

"Did they hurt you? The ghosts, I mean."

"Jane and Gillian are their names?" Erik asked.

"Shhh!" he continued, whispering. "They are the twins who died here! They had a treasure, you know. Did they make you wear this?"

"Look, boy," Erik said, the demanding tone catching James' attention. His whole face was turned, letting the boy get a good look at his mask, which glinted eerily in the moonlight.

"No ghost made me wear this," he said. He touched his mask. "There are no ghosts here!"

The boy was looking at him in disbelief. Erik sighed heavily.

"Believe me! I know what I'm talking about! THERE ARE NO GHOSTS HERE! Just you and me. I have been living in this house for six months now, and no lady - sister, widow, spinster, or spirit - has visited me. Of all people in this world, I'd recognize a ghost if I saw one. TRUST ME on this!"

"Mary said Jane bewitched your face to look like half a man and half a lion."

"Who's Mary? Another ghost?" Erik asked in a mocking tone.

"Mary is the baker's daughter, sir," James replied solemnly. He seemed insulted.

Erik didn't know if he should be upset or entertained by the story the children imagined. Finally, his curiosity got the best of him. "I've seen her once. A nice looking girl. Tell me, James, why a lion? Why not something else? An eagle or a monkey? Is this Jane-ghost a lion lover?"

"No, sir. I don't know her taste. Mary said it was a lion because of the eyes."

"The eyes? What about the eyes? Speak, boy," Erik demanded impatiently.

"Your eyes, sir. They're like the lion's eyes in the painting Mr. Hamilton has above his desk. Yellow, gold-ringed…" his voice faded as he worried he had made his companion angry.

Indeed, Erik's brow furrowed in his usual, almost subconscious attempt to seal his eyes from other people's gaze. Although it was dark, it was second nature to him. At the same time, he was impressed by James' observing eye and his friend's imagination. James was obviously not as stupid a child as it had seemed.

"James, I'm not hiding a lion's head, and this is the end of our discussion about my mask." He paused for a moment to make his point clear. "Jane and Gillian are so quiet and polite - if this is still their abode- that they have never made their presence known to me."

They had just approached the cottage's gates, and the horse, as if understanding his master's hesitation, had stopped.

"What's your decision, James? I won't pressure you, but make it fast. I'm tired and hungry." He remotely remembered the last time he had had a decent meal.

At these words, a different spark appeared in James' eyes. Obviously, the boy was starving. Having this unexpected advantage, Erik played his last card.

"If you help me carry the packages into the house, I'll make some tea and some sandwiches."

"Father John said we should let the dead rest in peace, and don't stir the dark waters of hell," James said. This apparently seemed to be his last reservation.

No doubt the priest held an important role in the village. The boy obviously seemed to be afraid of him. It didn't surprise Erik a bit. It was a common situation for priests to draw attention to their "merciful" work by enslaving their believers with images of hell, devils, and fallen angels. Their faith was more based on fear than love, as fear was proven to be a more powerful, long-lasting emotion.

"It would be wise of 'Father John,'" Erik replied in a mocking tone, "to let the living live in peace, and not meddle with my life. Come, boy, there's no ghost here. And if there were, I'd scare it away."

With that, he hopped down from the cart and opened the gates.

"What will it be, James? Are you coming with me or not?"

"Will you be by my side, sir?" James inquired with uncertainty evident in his tone.

"All the way, James," Erik replied softly.

Convinced of Erik's promise, James grabbed hold of the reins fallen in his lap.

"Then come up, sir. YOU are coming with me!"

James was the first person who had ever set foot in Erik's house since he'd moved in six months ago. He was a spirited boy, but Erik knew he was still worried by the prospect of ghosts in the house, so he hastily lit some candles and a glorious fire in the kitchen's hearth. In a short while, every corner of the room was illuminated. He brought the candles into the parlor and urged the boy to come inside.

Curiosity was vivid in James' eyes as he tried to look at everything at once as if he were in a dream and could awaken at any moment. He looked at the parlor, at the kitchen, even at the dark library through the door left ajar.

When he saw the master of the house going to the cart, he followed him rapidly. Erik wasn't sure if he was eager to help or still afraid to be left alone. The possibility of being a source of security, even for a child afraid of ghosts, stirred strange emotions in him. Whatever the true reason was, James proved to be a hard worker.

They finished their task in fewer than ten minutes, and afterwards, silently enjoyed a hot tea and some quickly made sandwiches on the kitchen table. James, despite his small frame, had a gargantuan appetite. His table manners were far from the best, but either out of fear or from an inner sense of politeness, he always asked before a new piece of sandwich or a biscuit found its way to his mouth. Finally, without a word, he stood up to leave. He was heading to the door when he remembered something and turned back to face Erik, who was standing by the kitchen doorframe.

"Thank you, sir. Good evening!" he said with his soft voice. Obviously, this was the best way he knew to appear a gentleman.

"You're welcome, James. Thank you for your help".

Erik realized that, for the first time in his life, he had actually thanked someone for services rendered. For so many years, people had followed his orders and obeyed his commands, and it had never occurred to him to thank someone. Not even Madame Giry, he was ashamed to admit.

"Wait! Take this for your work." A coin appeared out of nowhere on Erik's palm.

"No, sir, I can't," James replied, still looking amazed by the trick.

"Of course you can! Don't give it to your mother. Keep it for yourself." He waved him off to the door with a gesture indicating the case was closed.

"I really can't, sir," James insisted. "If I take the money and buy something, Mother will think I stole it from her."

"Then hide it in your room, boy."

"I have no room. I sleep in the store. If she finds it there, she'll think I'm hiding more. Even if I give it to her, she'll think you gave me more and I kept some for myself."

Obviously, James had learned this lesson well, and Erik ventured to guess that it had been taught the hard way. Erik was silent for a moment trying to find a way to resolve the predicament. He couldn't stand to be ruled by Mrs. Oliveer's greedy nature.

"It seems we have a real Scrooge here," Erik noticed aloud, but James didn't respond. It occurred to Erik that James probably hadn't read Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_.

"You could give me one more of those almond biscuits for the road." James' hesitant voice was heard again.

"I'll be damned!" Erik exclaimed, wondering why he hadn't thought of that solution before. Undoubtedly, the child had a sweet tooth. He wrapped the remaining few biscuits in brown paper, and gave the parcel to James.

"Eat them all before you reach the store," Erik commanded, though he doubted he needed to even say it.  
"I don't want one crumb of MY biscuits to fall on your mother's floor." His eyes glittered with distaste for the woman. "Come back in three weeks' time. I may have an order to give you. Tell your mother you'll be paid for your work."

With these words, he let him go. James descended the staircase to the lane that led to the gates, and looked back toward Erik apprehensively. He clutched the pack of biscuits firmly in his hand. Erik's deep, melodic voice filled the night. "Remember, James, there are no ghosts here, but this is only for you to know!"


	3. A dilemma

This story wouldn't exist without Desiree and TOWDNWTBN (The-One-Who-Does-Not-Wish-To-Be-Named)… Thank you, ladies!

Thank you all for reading! Virtual hugs to those who reviewed.

**CHAPTER 3 - A dilemma**

Minnette Giry opened the wooden box with trembling hands, and removed all of Christine's letters. She spread them on the bed cover, and started to read them one by one. A decision had to be made. Once again, she had to choose whose trust she would betray and what secrets she would keep…

_My dear Madame Giry,_

I'm writing this letter in a hurry. Raoul is waiting for me to join him for our afternoon walk. We're in Italy for two weeks, and I can't imagine a place more beautiful…and amazing. The sun rises over the brightest-coloured buildings I've ever seen. I'm in love with this place, and I think I could live here forever. When I mentioned it to Raoul he laughed- you know, that hearty laugh of his- explaining to me that he has a lot of responsibilities in Paris as a member of a noble family, and I do also. I don't exactly know what these responsibilities are, but I'm sure I'll adjust and behave properly when we return home. Raoul is very helpful and caring, always trying to make things easier for me. I owe him a lot for his thoughtfulness, so it's the least I can do to play the role of the Vicomtesse. He's seen how fond I am of this country, and he has arranged for us to meet a friend of his brother in Florence, who will show us all the churches and the art treasures the city is famous for. It's so moving. He's trying so hard, but he doesn't know that I already know everything about Italy, and that now I merely fit images to the stories I heard so many years ago, so many times before. Only now can I appreciate how vivid and colourful my tutor's descriptions were, and how his every word is engraved on my memory.

_Of course, I can't say any of this to Raoul, who's trying so hard to put the past behind us and start a new life together. Everything happened so fast. I sometimes forget that I'm a married woman now, but I'm determined to make this work._

There are days when I don't feel that I have the power or the will to get out of bed, but Raoul is so understanding! He lets me have my space, and has never mentioned anything that would make me feel awkward. I must be very lucky to have such a loving husband…

_I can't wait to hear news from you and Meg in Paris._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Christine de Chagny  
_

_Dear Madame Giry,_

I've heard the news from a short letter Meg sent me about her elopement with the American gentleman who was courting her. I couldn't help writing to you immediately. Is there anything I can do to help? Have you heard from her? In her letter, she said you didn't approve of her marriage to Mr. Wilson and thus left her no other choice. Is that true? I feel I'm too far away to be truly helpful, but please do not hesitate to ask anything at all of Raoul or of me. For the time being, we are in Florence.  
I hope to hear news from you soon,

_Sincerely yours,_

_Christine_

  
_Dear Madame Giry,_

I think this shall be the last letter I will be sending from Italy. We're leaving Florence in a week and returning straight to Paris. The truth is I've been feeling a little under the weather of late, and yesterday a doctor confirmed the reason why: I'm pregnant! I never thought such thing possible so soon, but it is. Now I'm a mother-to-be, and I feel quite exhilarated by the news. Raoul insists on coming back, and to be honest, I don't have the energy to persuade him otherwise. 

_My only regret is that I'll miss seeing Venice, my favourite destination to begin with. I was dying to see La Fenice, the beautiful opera house I've heard so much about. Did you know that it burned almost 40 years ago, and they rebuilt it exactly as it had been before the fire? I wish the same thing could be done for our Opera House, but I don't think it possible._

The sun is so warm here, especially at noon, that it sometimes makes me dizzy. I have often wondered if_ he__ felt warm in Italy, if he was happy in Venice. I believe he was. His voice was sad when he spoke about it, but there always was another feeling I can't describe even now. He is such a mystery! I wished to go to Venice to see the streets he'd walked without care, without worry that people might see his mask._

Anyway, a part of me is relieved. I could never see another gondola or a gondolier without tears coming to my eyes. I know I'm silly. Maybe it's my condition that makes me so emotional, but with all my heart, I hope he's somewhere safe and that he is content. At times, I wonder if I'm being unfaithful to Raoul for thinking of my past, but how can I forget all that made me who I am? I don't think it's cruel to Raoul. After all, he says he loves me as I am (didn't_ he__ make me who I am?). _

_Maybe I have these feelings because of the child. For the first time in my life, I feel I have what I want, what I need to be happy, and I want the whole world to feel this way. How can I exclude my poor maestro?_

Sincerely yours,

_Christine de Chagny  
_

_Dear Madame Giry,_

Our brief meeting last week wasn't enough to satisfy my need for your company. I wish that your home weren't so far from Paris, and you could visit more often. Do I sound childish? I probably do. You're the only one I can really talk to these days with any hope of being understood. I've been in Paris for two months, and it seems more like centuries to me.

As you have seen, I'm not having the easy pregnancy I had hoped for. I'm sick of having to stay in bed all the time, and I wonder if my feet might possibly become more swollen before they explode. Is this normal for a woman who's only four months pregnant? All the silly doctor can suggest is to be patient. _  
__  
The only relief accorded by my poor condition is that now I have a decent excuse to avoid the balls and the parties to which we're invited. Raoul has bought me at least a dozen gowns of the latest fashion, and I have had to parade as a peacock to various balls. Did you know purple feathers are in fashion now? How disgusting! Phillipe thought it necessary for us to accept almost every social invitation because the scandal of the opera is still fresh in the public's eye, and he doesn't want us to look as though we are afraid or hiding. I have to admit, though, hiding would be preferable to being exposed to all the gossip and the stares. I don't know why Raoul has put up with this; perhaps it's the fact that Phillipe is older, he is running all the important family affairs, and probably knows better. Phillipe has an attitude and an opinion regarding nobility which remind me of my teacher. He doesn't respect them and thinks they can definitely be manipulated. Society rules seem to bend easily in his case. I do understand that he doesn't approve of Raoul marrying me, but I cannot stand being manipulated by him out of obligation._

Another result of my immobility is that I have had to stop my piano lessons with M. Renault. He is a poor excuse for a tutor (but then who wouldn't be, compared to my former tutor?), but he has tried very hard to improve my pathetic playing to a mediocre level at the very least. The piano lessons were a gift from Raoul when we returned from our honeymoon in Italy. He has always known what music means to me, but, of course, voice lessons were out of the question. It was a silent agreement from the beginning: for me not to ask, and for him not to mention. For my part, it is an easy task since I can't have a future in singing as a vicomtesse, and considering the fact that no one could replace my maestro, it feels wrong to try to develop my voice techniques further. To you, I can confess that a dark part of me believes that my voice doesn't belong to me. It's not completely mine, but _his__, too. There is a bond that connects us through our voices and our singing. I can't explain it, and I can't break it, either. I can only treasure it somewhere deep inside. Because even though I'm a married woman, the bond I've felt joining us when we sang together on and off stage is the most intense experience I have ever had with another human being.. It was during these precious moments I felt my existence truly worthy, and after them, I felt revitalized and spent at the same time. I know he must have felt it too, for no words escaped our mouths, so afraid were we of ruining the fragile emotion._

Please do not misunderstand me, Madame. I haven't regretted the choice I've made or the life I now share with Raoul. I'm grateful for this chance to have a normal, happy life, children and peace with a man who loves me more than anything. I know simple, everyday things can't be replaced by anything, not even art itself.___I believe I've finally found a family to belong to. Not Raoul's family, because his brother is hardly my favourite person in the world thanks to the way he treats my husband, but the family Raoul and I will be having when our baby is born._

_Then I think I'll be able to leave everything behind and dream of a future…_

_Sincerely yours,_

_Christine de Chagny_

For the next several days after James' visit, Erik had serious regrets about inviting the child inside his house. For all he knew, he could be the story of the day in the village. Surely it wouldn't be long before James would be known as the brave hero who had entered the ghosts' house. He already knew people were talking about him. It wasn't like him to trust someone so easily, and he blamed his state of mind. What surprised him most was his own insistent attempt to persuade James to come inside the gates, to not be afraid of the ghosts or of him…He was getting weak.

Was he so desperate for company, then? No, that couldn't be the case. He was only curious about the child. James' passive attitude in the store and his behaviour later was intriguing to Erik. Around his mother and the customers, he seemed almost stupid, withdrawn, and reserved, but he had shown Erik a different side. During the time they had been alone together, the child had appeared smart, brave, and had shown a methodical way of thinking. He covered his intelligence behind his habitual behaviour. James wore a mask of his own. Erik was not flattering himself thinking that the boy liked him and felt comfortable enough to reveal himself. Surely he was just as curious about the reclusive freak as any other person would be, but since Erik was curious about him, too, it didn't bother him so much.

And still, he was nothing but a child. Erik could not suppress a smile when he remembered James leaving that night. He had been singing a song to himself, a plain, monotonous, childish tune, obviously to comfort himself during his ride home.

_"When I walk, I'm not alone,  
when I talk, I'm not alone,  
when I sing, I'm not alone,  
there's my voice in my song.  
Alone no more I want to be.  
Like the restless little bee,  
I want my friends to be around,  
and my feet back on the ground…"_

He kept repeating it like a mantra until Erik lost sight of him. Once he was alone, he realized he wasn't in the mood to open the parcels. Deciding to leave that chore for the next morning, he instead went to the music room. The room was large and empty, except for his piano and a large fireplace at the opposite side of the room. Tuning this forgotten piano had been the first task he had undertaken when he'd moved into the Red Door Cottage. Its ivory and ebony keys were waiting for his touch; music was the only willing lover he was ever meant to have. James' song danced in his head. As his long fingers started to play the monotonous, melancholic tune, its notes filled the room with sadness and longing. Without realizing it, he began to sing in a low, deep voice, bowing his head, almost whispering to the faithful keys:

_"When I walk, I'm not alone,  
when I talk, I'm not alone,  
when I sing, I'm not alone,  
there's my voice in my song.  
Alone no more I want to live,  
your voice in my head to hear,  
since you cannot be somewhere near,  
alone to love, alone to fear..."  
_  
Erik angrily slammed his palms against the keys, making an awful, harsh sound. He couldn't stand the way everything reminded him of her. The way she had poisoned his thoughts, his music, even this stupid, childish song. He lowered his face slowly until his exposed cheek was lying on the cold, wooden surface of the piano, letting himself rest within the sound of silence…the only secure sound for the time being.

_My dear Minnette, _

_Have you read the _Époque_? What's the meaning of this? This can't be happening! Please contact me at once!_

_Christine  
_  
_Dear Madame, _

_I haven't heard from you, and I'm becoming desperate. I'm confined to this bed, and I can't do anything but think and write. If I could walk, I'd go to this Persian, to this friend of his, but I'm helpless. This isn't happening! It isn't true! I know it deep in my soul. I beg of you, for the love of God, write to me!_

_Christine  
_  
_Dear Madame Giry, _

_I apologize for not having written sooner, but I couldn't find the strength for such a task. I've read your letter a thousand times. It is almost as short as the dreadful announcement in the paper two weeks ago. How is it possible? What does "Erik is dead" mean? If a dog died, the obituary would be longer. I guess the Persian thought that nobody cared, but how is it possible? Erik is not dead. He can't be. I'm writing his name, and I'm reading it again and again in my mind, that awful piece in the newspaper. I didn't dare to speak of him or think of him by his name before, afraid I'd conjure him to me somehow to claim what is rightfully his, the part of me that belongs to him. Now I'm saying his name silently. I repeat it. I whisper it, and nothing happens.  
Can he be dead? I don't, I can't believe it. Erik always was like a force of nature, he was power incarnate. He ruled over life and death. Can he be dead now?_

He'd never seemed ill to me. I would have noticed, wouldn't I? How could I have been so careless as to not have seen it coming?

_Raoul knows about it. I know he knows. This is another silent agreement we've made. Not to talk about __him__. Now there's only silence between us. He looks at me, and I see the hurt in his eyes. What can I do? How can I spare him this pain when I've been so weak that I was unable to save my master's life? I'm thinking of my child, this tiny life inside my body. My baby will be born, and will never have the chance to hear his music or his voice. No, I'm not going mad. I realize he would probably never have seen my child, but that's all I'm thinking of, of my baby and my Angel._

_Please come. Don't leave me alone,_

_Christine  
_  
Minnette Giry believed herself to be a strong, tough woman. After all, she'd raised her daughter by herself. She'd enjoyed a successful career. She had survived under the most difficult circumstances, and stayed loyal to her values and honest to her principles. Now she was living alone, separated from her only child by a vast ocean.

For the first time in her life, she felt old beyond her age. She folded Christine's last letter with care and put it on top of the others within the engraved wooden music box that Erik had given her before he left for England. It was a piece of art he'd made himself, probably for Christine. The painted butterflies were so vivid, and their wings so transparent, that they looked as though they were actually flying. Or maybe it was another of his masterful illusions. Minette used to think herself both cursed and blessed to have met Erik in her lifetime. The man had a kind of Midas touch. He didn't turn anything he touched to gold, but he undoubtedly influenced everything and everyone around him so that nothing could ever be the same as before. Yet he seemed to have no knowledge of this power. She knew what Christine meant by seeing him as a force of nature. Minnette herself had witnessed his reign over life and death in the Opera House. No god, religion, or social code determined his actions, for he had his own strict code of ethics and morals, of right and wrong, acknowledging no gods other than music and art. No action or person had ever bent his willpower until Christine came to live at the opera house. He had fallen for this shy young woman, who had unsuspectingly set the countdown for all their lives. She had introduced him to a whole new world he could never master, and in the process of conquering this world, he had destroyed the existing one.

If Christine had seen him during the last two weeks he had remained in France, she would not have been so surprised by the news of his death. Besides the manhunt for him all over Paris, another reason Minnette had so eagerly helped him to arrange his departure to England was that she didn't want to witness his death. It was a cold, selfish thought, but to see him deteriorate in front of her eyes had been more than she could endure.

Now Minnette was divided. Christine seemed frantic about the news of Erik's death, and she knew it was a pain she could easily banish. But did she dare to defy his wishes? Was it right? When she had first read his short letter, she had been relieved. His commanding tone alone was a sign of the old Erik she knew. The idea was simple, yet brilliant. Nadir would take care of the details. Minette's sole responsibility was to keep the truth a secret, especially from Christine. He had been adamant about that, and she could see his point, even though he hadn't cared to elaborate.   
  
The few times Minnette had visited the de Chagny estate, she couldn't help noticing Raoul's suspicious stares. The poor man lived under the constant fear that a note would slip from her purse or from under her sleeve to his wife from the madman who had nearly killed him. She couldn't blame him. He knew where her true loyalties lay.

She could also admire how sensitive Raoul was towards Christine's feelings. He could have made Erik's life difficult during the days after the Opera House fire, could have put more men to the chase or pressed the authorities for results. Instead, he had focused totally on his wife, knowing that she still harboured deep feelings towards her former tutor. He didn't want Erik's blood on his hands. Even if Christine had understood the necessity of such measures, she would never have forgiven him. Raoul's plan for gaining her complete devotion was simple. He would openheartedly give her all his rival could not, even in his most absurd dreams: an honourable name, respected social status, even her dead father's approval from the time they were children. He would introduce her to all the privileges his money and title could provide. All these advantages, in addition to his tender affection, gentle love, and his extreme good looks, made him irresistible to so many other young women. Truth be told, if Raoul had been an arrogant man by nature, he would have run out of patience with the whole predicament long ago.

Minnette contemplated her options and decided she had none. It was her nature to adopt the role of the observer, not only during difficult situations, but also as a way of living. Sometimes she wondered if it was a sort of cowardice that prevented her from putting a distance between herself and Erik's affairs. Then again, this man was a living, breathing riddle. Someone would have to be dead not to be intrigued by him.

For a few moments during the last year's events, her deeply buried romantic nature had dared to wonder if the composer had a serious chance of gaining the young diva's heart, and how life would turn out for him in that unimaginable scenario. It was her own woman's heart that cruelly answered the question. Perhaps in a fairy tale, the ending would be different, but Minnette, just as Erik, had been nurtured with operas, and in operas, there are no happy finales for the great love affairs. Only torment and death. He knew it better than anyone. No ending could or should be different, and Erik seemed to finally have realised that.

At least that was what had been implied by Erik's strict instruction not to mention any news concerning Christine and her growing family to him again. She was glad she felt she had no alternative other than to comply.

Erik's choice was the best of all the possible options a man with his temper and imagination could conceive. It could almost be regarded as noble of him to honestly have set her free in such a definite way, though the nobility of his character had always been questionable. Christine's grief would be soon comforted by her baby, and having a young, handsome, warm man by her side each day would easily erase, or at least fade, any memory of the past. All Minnette could do at the moment was to remain silent and observe.

_Note: La Fenice is an opera house which truly exists in Venice, and Rubelli's workshop made new wallpaper and tapestries after the last fire (it was the third!) destroyed the building. They were made according to the original designs the same workshop had used when La Fenice was first built._


	4. James

Thank you all for reading! Virtual hugs and pastries –they're calorie free!- to those who reviewed!

Thank you, Desiree and TOWDNWTBN (you know…The-One-Who-Does-Not-Wish-To-Be-Named). You are the best!

**CHAPTER 4-James**

Three weeks after James' visit to Red Door Cottage, Erik heard the alarm bell ring, indicating that someone had opened the front gate. From his bedroom window, he saw James walking up the lane towards the main door.

"Someone is in need of extra money," he thought, remembering Mrs. Oliveer's money-loving character, and he threw the latest threatening note he had received onto his desk.

_"Living in the shadow of evil, you risk more than your peace of mind..."_

A cynical half-smile formed on his face. Risk his peace of mind? What a joke!  
In the past weeks, Erik had wholeheartedly welcomed every bruise, every strained muscle, every physical pain his work at the Twin House caused as long as it provided him a few hours of dreamless sleep at the end of the day.

What peace of mind?

He traced the poor-quality parchment paper. "_Hard days for ghosts!" _These notes had become his only source of amusement. The best letter of all was one supposedly written by one of the ghosts herself, Jane, and she had ordered him to evacuate her house immediately. If Jane had not known how to spell the word "evacuate" correctly during her life on earth, she obviously hadn't had any luck learning it during the ten years since her death, either.

Erik opened the door before James had the chance to knock.

He allowed his visitor to take in his shiny and polished boots, his dark green brocade waistcoat and the bright white shirt with its sleeves rolled up, but when James' eyes lifted to his face Erik took an aggressive step forward.

"Excuse me, sir. I'm James Oliveer, Mrs. Oliveer's son…"

"I know who you are, boy. I'm not senile!" the masked man said in an irritated tone.

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I know it's early, but I came yesterday and the day before later in the morning and then around noon, and no one was here."

The masked man narrowed his eyes and looked at him for a moment seriously.

Erik realized he hadn't checked his alarms for visitors around the house. It had been negligent of him.

"I wasn't here. I was working at the Twin House."

A spark of interest appeared in James' eyes before he managed to hide it. Erik inwardly cursed himself. Why had he explained his absence to this filthy child? Apparently James had made some effort to clean himself up, for his hands and his face were not as dirty as the last time he had seen him, but the boy surely needed a swim in the lake and a long hot bath afterwards to start resembling a human being.

"Why didn't you leave me a note? I'd have waited for you yesterday," Erik said impatiently.

He watched James' shoulders shrug briefly at his suggestion, and a gleam of shame flashed in the boy's eyes.

"Have you eaten breakfast?" This was familiar ground.  
The boy nodded, saying a shy "yes," but clearly there was no honesty in his answer, just pride.

"Follow me," Erik ordered with a challenging gaze, testing him to see if he still dared to come into the house.

James accepted the challenge and the breakfast proposal at the same time. He straightened his shoulders and walked inside the door and into the hall. They shared a simple breakfast in the kitchen in absolute but not awkward silence.  
When they were both finished, Erik left the kitchen for a moment and came back with a piece of parchment paper in his hand, which he placed on the kitchen table in front of James.

"Here is a list of items I require. Read it, and tell me what you don't understand or you don't know. I need to know if the items can be found in the village market, or if I shall need to make a separate order for Mr. Hamilton."

The boy lifted the paper with trembling hands. Blushing, James gazed at the list for a while with a miserable look on his face. Suddenly he looked at Erik with hopeful eyes.

"Can Mary help me do the shopping?"

"Certainly not!" Erik's tone was grave. "I want YOU to fetch these items for me. No one else."

The familiar miserable look reappeared on the boy's face.

"Then I am afraid I can't help you, sir," he whispered, lifting his chin.

Erik looked at him, furious. He couldn't believe this insolent boy would not obey his orders. He was mad at himself for trusting someone in his house, and even angrier because he desperately needed someone to undertake such an easy task!

"What's this nonsense? I won't tolerate impudence from you, boy. Don't waste my time!" He was fuming.  
"Let me get this right." He began to pace around the room in a fury with long strides. "You won't do as I ask -_ as I pay you to do_ if your…friend won't be with you? Isn't that a little extreme? Do you want me to pay her, too? Is that what this is all about?"

James hung his head, the list still in his hands. Hearing the last words, he raised his chin, and looked him straight in the eyes. Erik was impressed by the lack of fear he saw there. Adults had recoiled with nothing but a stare from him, and yet this child was daring to look, daring to answer.

"Mary is just my friend. We go together to Hey."

If that was said to explain something to Erik, it hadn't any luck. He didn't know what "Hey" was or where it was, if it was a location. He remained silent to let James continue.

"The thing is…the truth is….I don't know how to read or write." By then, his voice was barely audible, and his face had flushed the same shade of red as before. He looked humiliated.

Erik sank into his chair, stunned. It wasn't the first time this boy had managed to surprise him. He probably should have guessed. After all, it was common among peasants and farmers not to know how to read and write, but he knew there was a kind of school in the village where Father John was teaching the children. James was a smart child, and even his mother knew how to read and write. He couldn't comprehend how James had been left out. Obviously it was something the child was extremely ashamed of.

"I can take the list to my mother and to Mr. Hamilton if necessary. I can come back, and tell you what happened." The tone of James' voice indicated he wasn't willing to lose this opportunity to work for him, and Erik couldn't guess the reason.

"I'll read the list for you now, but you can't come back and forth…That's ridiculous!  
It isn't practical," Erik explained, seeing James' hurt look when he heard the word 'ridiculous." "Your mother won't let you do it. She'll need your help."

"She won't have a problem if you still pay what you said you will. She always says I'm in her way," James said, though his face brightened at this new chance. Erik stood again.

"We'll do that _for now_. But I can't have you working for me not knowing how to read or how to write. That's elementary knowledge, James," Erik said with an air of exasperation.

"I can't learn! I've tried. I just can't." He paused for a while. Anger and disappointment were evident on the boy's face again. "Mother and Father John said I'm too stupid," he added, as if this were a more than sufficient explanation.

"I can't believe that. You're certainly NOT stupid. I can teach you how."

"I can't! I told you I've tried!" the boy shouted. "Even Mary tried to teach me. She's the only one who doesn't laugh at me about it, but I really can't! I don't want to try anymore," the child whispered, furrowing his brow.

"This is unacceptable, James! You'll try with me. If I see that you 'really can't,' we'll leave it there, but you have to try."

Erik didn't know why he did this, why he insisted so much. He was certain he was going to regret it, but at this moment, he was determined to prove everyone wrong. Considering the issue settled, Erik started reading the list aloud, stopping to explain to James about the required items or their quality when it was necessary. Half an hour later, the work was finished with Erik's silent hope James would remember everything correctly.

*****************

"Do you eat snails?"

The question was totally unexpected. For the last five minutes, they had talked about the nails Erik needed and the size of their heads, depending on the material they would be used for. For a moment, Erik thought he had misunderstood James' question.

'Snails?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yes, snails! Mother said that Frenchmen eat snails and cheese. She said that's why you don't buy much food," James replied.

"Because I eat snails?" Erik sounded amused, and James was encouraged to carry on.

"Mrs. Johnson said that you don't have bread in France, only loaves like sticks, and Mother said that you don't eat beef. That's why your hands are cold. She said they are like there's no blood in your veins, like a serpent. I think Mother is afraid of you. She doesn't like serpents. She's afraid of them," James whispered in a conspiratorial tone, revealing his mother's secret fear.

While Erik was wondering how a small boy could speak so fast with one breath, his former good mood was gradually fading. People everywhere were the same. New people, new stories, but always the same result. He was the freak of the village! He didn't remember touching Mrs. Oliveer without gloves. He ought to be more careful in the future. Still, this was a novelty. He had never been compared to a serpent before. Erik didn't like the metaphor.

James must have noticed the mood change, and decided silence was the best policy.

"Do you like serpents, James?" It was Erik's turn to surprise James. The boy observed him for a while, trying to guess what would be the correct answer. After a fruitless effort, he reluctantly responded.

"They are interesting, but I prefer lizards." He waited for a reaction, and when there was none, he continued in an enthusiastic tone. "I saw an iguana in Mary's book. It looked like a small dragon! But she said I have to go to Africa to see one alive. Is it true?"

"Not necessarily. They usually live in hot and dry climates, though."

"I don't like poisonous snakes. Jasper, Mary's dog, got bitten by one, and died. Is it true there are water snakes, and some people eat them?" James inquired.

That seemed to be the bottom line in every one of James' thoughts: food!

"Yes, that's true"

"Have you eaten a snake?" he asked, pure wonder evident in his voice.

"No, but I've eaten snails. They are called 'escargot.' They're delicious cooked with garlic butter and rosemary."

James was looking at him with wide eyes. Erik had his rapt attention, as if he were speaking about the most amazing matter in the world.

"I haven't eaten escargot since I left France, or a baguette either. A baguette is a long, thin loaf. It's crispy outside. I daresay you'd like it." Erik could bet money on that!

"What do you eat here? Mother said you buy only bread and cheese."

"Bread and cheese and dried meat, some fruit maybe. They 're adequate food," Erik stated with a note of defensiveness in his tone.

"_Adequate_?" James asked, puzzled.

"I mean 'enough,'" Erik explained to the child. He was starting to feel uncomfortable, sending doubts of tutoring James through his mind.

"I see," said James with a thoughtful look "You don't like eating," he stated. The sad way he said it showed a great deal of disappointment. It was like discovering Erik to be capable of the lowest act, as if it were the worst kind of betrayal in his mind.

"I do like eating. As a matter of fact, I enjoy having a hot meal. It's cooking I'm not particularly fond of. After all, you'll see that in life... sometimes, simple things, simple tastes are the best ones."

Erik started gathering some of the previous night's sketches for the Twin House. It was a polite indication he wanted to leave, which James failed or chose not to notice.

"You can hire a cook! Imagine all the food she could make. Stew, roast beef, kidney pies, cottage pies, soups - even pastries, tarts maybe…" the child was obviously daydreaming.

"For now, I have to leave you. I'm late for work." Erik was searching for a small hammer he had brought home the previous night to fix its loosening handle. James found it on a chair nearby, and handed it to him.

"I can help you, you know. Free of charge," he added hastily.

"I can't have that, James. Your mother will miss you." Erik filled a satchel with the tools he'd need for the day.

"No, she won't. I'll tell her I waited for you till noon to give me the list."

Erik raised his one visible eyebrow in wonder and disapproval at the same time. Lying was one more of the child's hidden "talents"! He had to be careful. Mostly because he found this boy more and more intriguing.

"If I go back now, she'll send me to help Mr. Keal. He's so boring! He talks all the time about his cows. Cows are very boring animals, you know." James' voice had an adult-like tone.

Erik suppressed a smile. He was actually feeling flattered that James preferred to stay with him, working, than hearing about cows. What pathetic feeling was that?

"I have to warn you it's not easy work. There are a lot of things to be done there."

"Are you building something at the Twin House, sir?"

"For the time being, I'm tearing some walls down. 'Building' will come later," Erik explained, gathering some food supplies. Judging from his partner's appetite, they would be needed!

"That's great! Mother always said I'm very good at destroying things!"

"That's not what I have in mind, James. In buildings and masonry, you have to be very careful what you 'destroy.' It may fall on your head."

"I can learn easily, sir, if you show me what to do."

If someone had asked Erik at that moment (or in the following years for that matter) what held him back from refusing James' help that day, he couldn't have formed a decent, honest answer. All he knew was that James was available, and he accepted his offer. He didn't remember a lot about that day afterwards, except the child's chattering all the way to the Twin House. James was obviously daydreaming. He was describing what he would do if he were the master of the Twin Houses. First of all, how the village would be surprised at how brave he was for staying at the haunted houses. Erik suspected that was the main reason for his appeal to the boy. When he suggested, though, that there were no ghosts, James surprised him, repeating the words he told him three weeks ago: "That's only for me to know."

James rattled on in a dreamlike state about how horses and ducks for the lake would be his first purchases, right after he had hired a skilled cook. Zebras and eagles would follow later, while eagle training would take most of his time. His imagination was vast, and he had an ability to form and describe vivid, usually amusing, images.

For the next few weeks, a new routine was formed: James and his dog, Blue, would come three to four days per week to the Twin House, sometimes to bring Erik's various orders, but mostly without his mother's permission, helping with the reconstruction and taking reading lessons in the afternoon after a generous meal. It didn't take a genius to realize it would be extremely difficult to make this work.

When he suggested to James that he could officially hire him, and he could stay at the Red Door Cottage with him, Erik expected to be refused. He knew this situation couldn't go on forever, so he was prepared for the inevitable ending. What he could not have guessed was the boy's willingness to accept the offer. Erik insisted that he have Sundays off to stay in the village, see his mother and friends. Gradually, he realized that James, due to his alleged stupidity, didn't have many friends, except Mary, but he made it very clear that visitors were not welcome in the house…

********************

Dealing with Mrs. Oliveer wasn't a difficult task after all, although Erik felt the walls of the small store moving in on him the moment he saw her approaching with that fake smile on her face. She liked the opportunity for an extra source of income, even though she made it clear that James' stepfather would have to give his consent when he was back from his latest trip. Erik was prepared for that, since James had informed him about his violent stepfather's "trips," which could take years if everyone was lucky. James admitted one day that he hardly remembered his face or anything else about him except the distinctive sound of his heels when he entered the store at night for more port or whiskey. His frightened look let Erik realize the boy had suffered a lot at the hands of this man he already despised without even having met. He was angry with the boy's mother, too, for her lack of concern, even for accepting his offer without caring about her son's opinion or will. Erik deliberately wore only one glove that day, playing with the other in his hands. If she had gotten difficult, "a serpent's touch" might have been more helpful than a good argument, but it was totally unnecessary.  
The woman would have agreed even if he had had horns on his head! 


	5. Lessons

Firstly, let me thank you all for your patience…I know that introducing new characters and scenery can be a little slow…

Thank you for reading and reviewing this story!

Desiree and TOW**S**DNWTBN (The-One-Who-**Still**-Does-Not-Wish-To-Be-Named) thank you! ;-)

* * *

**CHAPTER 5- Lessons**

Living with James turned out to be easier than Erik expected, despite the awkward situation. If he was afraid that his house would be filled with the child's laughter, he soon realized that wouldn't be the case at all. James was a quiet child, introverted and shy, though since the first days at the Red Door Cottage, a metamorphosis had occurred. Once James had been thoroughly groomed and dressed, he was revealed to be quite handsome. He had bright green eyes, the only part of his face Erik had clearly seen before. His whole face was covered with freckles, and his hair had a strange colour, something between strawberry blonde and light red. James was of average height, although he considered himself short. His height and the funny freckles that seemed to cover every exposed part of his body were his major source of distaste regarding his appearance. Erik was amused to watch James try to tame his unruly hair. His concern was highly out of character for someone who had only recently started using soap!

Even though the child's services in dealing with people in the village and his handiwork at the Twin House were gradually becoming priceless to Erik's convenience and peace of mind, there still was one major issue that troubled him and made him nervous: James' reading lessons.

Sometimes it was difficult to restrain his irritation and his lack of patience, especially when he saw James paying no attention to what he was telling him and looking around at anything in the library except the books in front of him. From the outset, Erik realized that this was something the boy endured only for his sake and because of his persistence. Another thing that was obvious from the beginning was that James was hardly capable of writing. He held the pen as if it were a repulsive insect, and it was taking him an enormous amount of time to form disfigured letters which were illegible most of the time.

Finally, after weeks of fruitless tutoring, Erik had no choice but to accept defeat. However, he would not be the man he was if he didn't name his terms on this loss, and make the most of it. Seeing that teaching James to write was proving to be impossible, he decided to let it be and concentrate on reading. At the beginning, the boy was relieved and thought that by not paying attention to the reading lessons he'd be excused from them, too. What James wasn't aware of was that, in the matter of stubbornness, Erik could not be defeated. Endless evenings were spent in the library where they sat side by side at Erik's large desk with books in front of them, slowly pairing letters into words, words into sentences. Every time James became distracted from his task, a familiar, strict voice seemed to come sometimes from his book, the ink beside it, the hearth, or even from his dog's mouth, always taking him by surprise and back to order— the only ventriloquist trick Erik permitted himself.

When James finally gave in and started to sincerely study, Erik gave him the right motivation by reading him parts of the boy's favourite books, _The Three Musketeers_ or _The Count of Monte Cristo_. When he got to the part where the heroes were in a difficult or life-threatening situation, Erik ruthlessly closed the book, pretending he was sleepy or even bored. It took all his self-control not to indulge the boy's wishes to carry on reading when Edmond Dantes was trying to escape from the Chateau D'if. James, trying to hide the tears in his eyes over the death of the abbe Faria, asked permission to go to his room, pretending that he was absentmindedly taking the book with him, instead of putting it back in the library.  
When he retired to his room a couple of hours later, Erik smiled, seeing the dim light of the candle under James' bedroom door, and barely heard him trying to read, whispering to himself, as he'd been shown during their lessons.

IIII IIII IIII

While Erik had previously never cared about what day it was, Sundays gradually became special for him. During all the years living alone, he had never marked weekends and holidays on his calendar - just opening nights, opera performances, and set design deadlines. Even though James' presence was discrete, the hours the boy spent in the village every Sunday, and sometimes Saturday evening, spending the night with his mother, were cherished in a special way. Erik looked over all Christine's belongings that he had packed away safely in trunks, waiting for the time when they would be transferred. He took late swims in the lake or maybe sang while playing his favourite melodies.

It was the afternoon of a particularly warm Sunday, and Erik was seriously considering a swim in the lake. He was wearing a poet's white cream shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his usual black breeches, and all he could think about was getting rid of all of his clothes for the sensation of the cool water on his bare skin. Being without his mask even during a swim made him extremely uncomfortable, but this pleasure was a treat he couldn't deny himself. Deciding in favour of a swim, he hurried, finishing the work he'd started in the library. He was just about to leave the room when he saw the copy of _Gulliver's Travels_ on his desk. He had a vast collection of books, and it had become enjoyable to find some novels for James to read. It was his guess that the boy would be thrilled by the Lilliputians. This was a copy of the first Faulkner edition of 1735, and he was wondering how wise it was to give a valuable 140-year-old book to a young boy to read. Making a fast decision, Erik took the book into his hands and ascended the stairs to the upper floor. James' room was the first; knowing its resident was in the village, he opened the door.

The first sound he heard was James' cry of terror. Erik felt the blood draining from his face, and his hand automatically flew to the right side of his face, only to find the cool surface of his mask firmly hiding the scarred skin. He shouldn't be worried. Slipping his mask into place was the first thing he did every morning, and removing it was the last every night, but after the "unmasking incident" as he liked to call it, many nights he had woken up with cold sweat covering his body after reliving the painful experience – the screams and the shrieks of the audience, but most of all, Christine's sad look were engraved in his memory. All the anger of that night's memory filled him once more, in addition to the irritation the unwanted surprise caused him. His sight registered the boy sitting on the floor, writing on a piece of paper with his left hand, but he was so furious about what might have happened if he hadn't been wearing his mask that his mind couldn't comprehend this new information.

"What the hell are you doing here?" His voice was the voice of a very angry Phantom, a tone James had never heard before, and his eyes were filled with a different kind of horror.

Erik felt his anger ease a little.

"Tomorrow, you'll have a lot of explaining to do, James!" He spit the words out and hastily left the room.

Keeping a distance for the time being was crucial for him to gain control of his emotions. At first, his room at the end of the corridor seemed like a cage as his anger got the best of him. He paced the room as a hundred different thoughts entered his mind. Wasn't this his house, his property? Shouldn't he know everything happening in his domain? Was this the first time the boy had stayed at the house on Sunday? Had he ever heard him sing, or, even worse, seen him without his mask? His better judgement told him that if this were the case, James would've run, terrified, and never come back, but he had to check it out. Why hadn't James let him know he was here? How could he have missed his presence? Why hadn't James told him he was left-handed? And most important, how could HE have missed that?

The answer to that question was an easy one. Erik was used to working alone in the east wing of the Twin House, a location forbidden to James, while the boy was in the parlor or the library downstairs. Erik never saw him actually doing the most complicated work he assigned him, and during the day, he could've sworn the boy used his right hand. He ate with the right hand. He did his chores around the house with his right hand. He even tried to learn how to write with his right hand-no wonder the results of this effort were poor!

It took a couple of hours for Erik to let his anger subside and his curiosity rise. He started to feel guilty about his harsh tone, and he wasn't used to such irritating emotions.

The book caught his eye, and his failed attempt to leave it in James' room mocked him. Maybe they were right, and he was truly an animal, a beast incapable of civilized behaviour, no matter how hard he tried to conceal his true nature. One thing was certain. He had proven to be an inadequate teacher for James, with his self-absorbed behaviour centred on Christine and his new obsession at the Twin House. This had to change.

Once again, he found himself outside James' door, but this time, he knocked lightly and waited for an answer before entering. The child was standing by his bed; his eyes were red, and he hung his head in shame. On his bed were all of his belongings gathered and ready for packing. The room seemed smaller now that they were both standing inside. The last light of the day peeked in through the window, deepening the pastel colors of the wallpaper into shades of dark red and purple. Erik looked straight into the boy's eyes with a questioning stare James could not afford to overlook.

"I believe you want me to leave your house," James explained with a strained voice.

"Do you want to leave the house?" Erik now used a neutral tone, not wanting to scare the boy any further. He was holding the book with both hands, pressing the paper cover firmly.

The boy looked confused. Knowing that Erik was waiting for an answer made him more discomfited.

"No," James whispered, lowering his head.

"Then why do you think I'd want you to leave?"

"Because I've stayed today." His face was turning redder at each word. "And because of …this." James lifted his left hand, and his voice broke. He was ready to burst into tears and used all his strength to avoid the embarrassment.

It was Erik's turn to look confused. He approached James and sat on the bed, keeping his mask out of the boy's sight. He showed him a place to sit next to him, and James slowly complied.

"Have you stayed home any other Sunday before?" he had to ask.

"Just one other time."

"How did I not see you?" Erik didn't have the nerve to ask the question he really wanted.

"You stayed the night at the Twin House, and didn't come back the whole day long." The boy sounded more relaxed now. Erik chose to believe him. He exhaled in relief, realizing that all this time he had been holding his breath.

"You know what you did is wrong, not to let me know you're in.  
Why did you stay?"

"Mary's gone to her aunt in Dorchester. I wanted to write a letter to send to her." James' eyes were locked on his entwined hands on his lap.

"Do you know how to write?" Erik questioned with a soft, comforting voice.

"Not really. I tried to do the exercise you taught me, but I haven't practiced a lot…till today."

"James, why didn't you tell me you can write with your left hand?" The silence that followed was the most unbearable sound he'd ever heard. The tears were streaming down the boy's face, falling on his lap. All this time, he'd never lifted his eyes to look at Erik, never made a sound. Not a single sob escaped his mouth. This agonizing silent pain was something Erik didn't know how to handle.

"You can tell me, you know." He threw his voice, making it sound as a whisper in the boy's ear, coming not from his mouth but from the boy's own hands, which were busily wiping his eyes now.

James quickly turned to face him in surprise. These ventriloquist tricks always seemed to impress him.

"I promised my mother. She asked me not to use my left hand, or we'd both be in deep trouble. He told me I had the devil in me. This was his sign on me._ His _mark." Erik felt his anger rising again. He wanted to ask who 'he' was, but he let the child continue as his distress seemed to grow with each passing minute.

"He told me the Devil chose ME among all the children in the village because of my mother's sins, and if I didn't fight it, the Devil would take charge of me." Fresh tears streamed down the boy's already wet cheeks.

"James, you know that's not true. A child can't be condemned by other people's actions or … 'sins'…" He saw he couldn't get through to him. "Why do you not think that using your left hand is an ability God gave to you? Some people can't do it, but I've seen you use both hands. It's an ability, not a sign!" Although Erik wasn't a believer, he didn't know what other argument could change James' mind.

"I couldn't use both at the beginning. I've learned to use my right hand, but I can't do everything with that." James revealed his left palm. A large scar from burning appeared in the middle of his palm.

"He did this to you?"

James answered the question with a nod. Erik had to inhale sharply to constrain himself.

"Who has done this to you, James?" Erik's voice was low and soft, but had a dangerous quality.

"He helped me keep myself from using this hand. It doesn't hurt now." James avoided answering who 'he' was. He sat there with his head down, tracing the scar with the fingers of his right hand.

"Who was he?" Erik insisted.

"I can't tell you. It doesn't really matter. He can't hurt me now." He shut his eyes, obviously trying to force the images out of his mind. He was shivering.

Erik decided not to press him any more.

"Whoever told you that was mistaken, James. It's no more different than having green eyes or blond hair." He knew it wasn't that easy to persuade the boy. Erik himself had spent his whole life looking at people through furrowed brows just to conceal the strange, unnerving colour of his eyes. Being out of words was unlike him, and he felt helpless. Once again, the silence was deeply disturbing in the darkening room.

"You don't want me to leave? You don't mind?"

"Of course I don't mind, child! On the contrary. I'm glad we are able to continue our lessons properly this time. You should learn how to write, James! You shouldn't imprison yourself in superstition and fear. You deserve better than that."

James was looking him straight in the eyes, challenging the seriousness of his passionate words. After a moment under James' inquiring gaze, Erik saw a shy smile light up the boy's face.

"You promise not to tell anyone about this if I start writing lessons?" James asked, twisting his hands on his lap.

"I promise," Erik replied solemnly.

"Cross your heart?" James asked, crossing his own heart.

"Cross my heart!" Erik mimicked his movements, trying to restrain a smile. His honesty was questionable, but cynicism was not a lesson he wanted to teach James at the moment.

"Then let's shake hands like gentlemen," James offered, to seal the agreement.

Erik raised his uncovered eyebrow in surprise, looking at the boy's extended left hand.  
It was an awkward handshake, James with his left hand, Erik with his dead cold one, but no one flinched in the slightest. Instead, a happy grin formed on the boy's face.

"That's for me?" he asked, pointing at the book left on the bed.

"Yes, but take extra good care with this copy. It's older than any of us will live to be."

James took the book with trembling hands.

"Will I like it?" he whispered, as if he were afraid to disturb the book's rest.

"I hope you will. You can write your opinion of it when you're finished."

James's eyes narrowed with concern. This sounded difficult.

"Don't worry! We'll see what we can do when we get there." Erik stood, heading to the door. "For now, let's get something to eat. I'm starving! I'll see what's in the kitchen. You can light the fire. It's getting cold." His usual commanding tone brought things back into order. He exited the room silently, wondering at how he'd almost gone swimming that afternoon. He'd have frozen to death!

IIII IIII IIII

The letter fell from Minnette's hands, the two pages flying on their own separate courses till they slowly hit the wooden floor. The excellent quality of the parchment with the crest of the de Chagny family mocked what was written beneath.

As it seemed, nobody could foresee the future, least of all herself. What should she do now? Maybe the best question was _should_ she do anything? Should she open the gates of hell for everyone? Did she dare? If only Erik knew…She stooped and picked up the letter, feeling the familiar pain in her knees. She was getting old. She was feeling far too old for all this. Minnette put the folded letter into the butterfly box and locked it inside as if afraid it would escape.


	6. Emily

A small confession: Even though I enjoy writing cliffhangers, I'm too much of a reader so I feel guilty after posting them. Only afterwards, though…;-)

Deanna's review helped me finalize a decision I was already considering.

So, since I have more free time the following weeks, and this is a completed story, I'll try posting two chapters per week (Monday/ Thursday).

OK! No more rambling!

My endless gratitude to Desiree and TOWSDNWTBN (The-One-Who-Still-Does-Not-Wish-To-Be-Named)!

(Last chapter introducing character. I promise!)

* * *

**CHAPTER 6- Emily**

_Three years later_

The first light of dawn was nearly visible over the hill. The village was hidden behind it, never visible from the Red Door Cottage. Erik's hands trembled as he fastened the golden cufflinks of his starched shirt. His dark cravat contrasted with the bright white shirt under his waistcoat. It had been a long time since he had dressed so formally.

He was shaved and dressed, his clothes for the trip neatly folded in a small satchel. He didn't need more. He didn't intend to stay long. His boots would be waiting for him just outside his room, polished and shined by James. The boy had been a treasure these past few years. Without him, Erik was sure he would long since have drowned in his self-loathing, but James' vitality and spontaneity gave him the push he needed to keep going.

A soft knock drove him out of his reverie.

"Your breakfast is ready," Emily informed him from outside the locked door.

"I'll be down in a minute!" His voice was hoarse.

The fact that he had told her the night before he would not require any breakfast had obviously escaped her recollection. Of course, Erik knew that Emily was as stubborn as anyone in the house, so he shouldn't have been surprised.  
Nor was he surprised by the influence she'd had on James. Emily had certainly managed to brighten their lives since she had came to the house, though Erik would rather die than admit that to the stubborn woman who was working at the Red Door Cottage as a cook and a housemaid. The decision to hire her could hardly have been described as an easy one. Erik had battled with the idea for months, not wanting to allow yet another person into his private life. But had he been honest with himself, he would have had to admit that his final decision demonstrated the influence James had on him by that time.

Finding a woman who would come to work at the Red Door Cottage was as difficult as deciding to hire one had been. Of course, no one from the village would dare to enter the haunted estate, so it had required the help of Mary's mother and her relatives all over the island. Finally, almost six months after James had spent his first night in the house, a young widow from Wales – too young for Erik's taste or preference – passed the threshold of the Red Door Cottage. Erik still very vividly remembered the day James had introduced him to the shy woman. She had stood with her head bent and her eyes locked on the carpet's motifs. Her hair was the color of sand, and her curious hazel eyes looked back at him with unhidden interest, though she managed to avoid staring at his mask. Naturally she had been thoroughly warned about that.

Erik had been expecting a much older woman. He had been informed she had been married, and that after her husband's death she had worked as a cook for eight years at the Claridge Mansion. In order to fit the age he calculated, Emily ought to have been at least thirty, but the woman seemed hardly twenty-five. Her wiry frame and her restless movements revealed an impatient character and an equally restless nature.

Erik had held her at a distance during the first months of her employment at the house, watching her reactions. He also wanted to give her time to get used to him, especially after certain "incidents" which had revealed his short temper. Emily was an easy-going person, living her life day by day. The more she adjusted to the situation, the more she revealed her true self. She was always working around the house, and just the smell of her cooking and pastries were enough to make James think of marrying her, if Mary hadn't still been his first choice.

Most of all, Erik liked the way Emily treated James, sometimes like a grown up gentleman. James loved that beyond belief. And other times like he wasn't more than five years old, teasing him, calling him "Jimmy" instead of Jamie. She used to call him that just to make him furious. After a while, James learned to ignore her teasing, and would often leave her, pouting, to continue his work elsewhere or read a book in the library. He knew that it wouldn't be long before Emily was knocking on the door, bringing a peace offering— a salty or sweet treat. James would simply melt before Erik's eyes.

II II II

Of course, Erik couldn't claim to have been the one to break the ice between them. He was never good at that, even if he tried. After all, his original decision had been to keep his distance and keep the relationship strictly formal.

But still, it apparently wasn't in Emily's nature to be satisfied with just that. She seemed to want a close bond with everyone, and furthermore, she was willing to spend the time to create it. Erik was not especially impressed that she had used her cooking abilities again to approach _him_, but he felt better thinking it was her own special language.

The majority of the time since Emily's arrival, Erik had eaten alone in his room or in the library, occasionally accompanied by James. The habit he and James had of eating together in the kitchen had been broken, since he wanted Emily to feel comfortable in her domain, and he initially wasn't feeling comfortable around her, either. Gradually and mostly because of James' insistence, Erik had started to share the table with Emily and James, and even though he had hardly ever been a part of the conversation that took place, he usually enjoyed it.

One evening, Erik had just arrived from the Twin House tired and with his boots covered in mud. The cottage pie on the kitchen table smelled divine, and James was already there with his mouth full. Eating before dinner had never affected that boy's appetite.

They had eaten the pie silently. Erik was still inwardly arguing with himself as to whether, as the master of the house, it was his duty to open conversation, or whether, for that matter, it was improper to eat with them. He decided etiquette had never ruled his life, so he would do as best suited him. He had remained silent. James, as usual, asked for a second piece, noticing that there was something very different about this pie. Emily's eyes had sparkled, but she didn't reveal her secret.

James, if nothing else, was curious and persistent. He had asked her what it was. He had begged her. He had even threatened not to eat anything of her making. Erik had to concentrate on his plate to avoid smiling at this unbelievable "threat." The boy was getting nervous because of Emily's teasing and unwillingness to trust him, as he had put it. He didn't really care about the recipe's secret. He wasn't going to cook. He just wanted to know! Emily was obviously enjoying this. A sardonic smile played all over her face. Erik decided it was time to choose sides and join forces. He looked at the overconfident way the stubborn woman, oblivious to James' pleas, was looking at them while serving the dessert. He slowly turned to the boy.

"It's cinnamon," Erik said in a plain manner. Living in Constantinople had accustomed him to most of the spices that existed all over the world. Using cinnamon in cooking was quite common there. James' grin had broadened, while Emily's smile faded. She was totally surprised. She looked at Erik with a new interest. He figured it was time for his next hit.

"Peppermint smells nice in that chocolate cream, Emily."

Emily's eyes grew wide in awe. She was gazing at him with a new appreciation and a newfound respect.

From that day on, a new game had begun with James, the willing observer. Emily liked experimenting in cooking, and her new crusade was to surprise Erik, which proved to be a difficult task. On his part, Erik had wholeheartedly enjoyed eating more frequently in the kitchen. A devilish smile appeared on his face every time he remembered her unfruitful attempts to surprise him, although deep down, he knew he wasn't always honest. Sometimes, it had taken all his cunning and a great deal of luck, but he was proud to say that not once had the smart lady from Wales succeeded at her goal.

II II II

Emily's presence was like a breath of fresh air within the gloomy, dark aura of the house, and Erik was surprised to find himself grateful for it, even though she could be a nightmare, too.

The worst time ever during these years they all lived together was when Emily had fallen from a ladder while dusting whatever she thought needed dusting and broke her wrist. This was also the first time the village's physician had come to the house.

That day, when Erik returned from the Twin House, wondering why James hadn't shown up, Dr. McKinnan was still at the Red Door Cottage. He was wrapping the woman's hand after he had set the bones. Fear was evident in both James' and Emily's eyes, since they had allowed a stranger into the house without Erik's permission. After realizing what had happened, though, Erik tried to take control of the situation. He invited the doctor into the library for a summary of what more needed to be done. The older man had been impressed by his collection of books and seemed more relaxed, even though Erik could not guess what exactly made people so easily afraid of him. The mask alone couldn't have had that effect.

Upon departing, the good and extremely talkative doctor left a bottle of what he had described as the finest malt whisky his homeland provided. He had thoroughly explained –testing Erik's patience- the process by which it was made, using water from a crystal clear stream named Kinchie, of the Scottish lowlands, an area described by Robert Burns with the most flattering words, as "the magnificent land of corn,"; he also noted the smoky essence of spices and summer fruits that flavoured the golden liquid. According to the doctor's orders, Emily could take small sips of the strong drink to ease the pain, since he thought of it as the best drug for mild pains. Erik, with great effort, remembered his good manners, thanked the doctor after paying him his fee, and inwardly decided to make one of his potions if Emily was in pain, rather than having a drunk woman in his house.

The month that followed was a trial for both James and Erik. While she had honestly tried to continue her chores in the house, it was obvious Emily couldn't be as efficient as before. Although Erik had reassured her that they could survive for a few weeks without such high standards, it was clear to him that she wasn't discouraged at all. It was as if there was a rule in her mind that a floor should be swept twice a day, and the furniture needed a daily dusting.

While _he_was protected by his role as the master of the house, James was another case. At the beginning, Emily had lured him like a siren, saying she needed him more than ever, and he was the only one who could help her prove she could still have the house running smoothly. Erik had overheard the conversation, and recognized the trap in an instant. The poor boy was flattered, even moved, and promised his assistance. Then the true tyrant appeared. For a month, James missed all his lessons, all his Sundays in the village, and all his "dates" with Mary. Whenever he had finished his work and entered the library, a familiar female voice sensed him, and called his name. He did chores Erik didn't know even existed in his household, like polishing silverware left in the house from the time the twin sisters had lived there. At one point, the boy was afraid to enter the kitchen, fearing that a new, equally boring task might be given to him by the temporarily out-of-commission keeper of the house.

One day, Erik experienced a temporary loss of sanity and volunteered for what should have been a particularly simple task— watering the garden. Way back, before even James had moved into the house, Erik had managed to bring water from the lake to the back side of the house and the kitchen through a complicated system of pipes and an irrigation pump. The whole structure was successfully hidden by bushes he had planted alongside the house. Although convenient, it was still hard to handle, so he had offered his help, knowing how special the kitchen garden was for Emily. The foolhardiness of his offer had hit him like a hammer when he saw her waiting for him after his work at the Twin House with an expression he could only describe as expectation mixed with disappointment. He had been late for his promised task. Emily didn't give him any time to change his clothes, and after a polite inquiry as to whether he had honestly _meant_ his offer, delivered in such a manner as to preclude "no" for an answer, she had started to give instructions. According to Emily's notion of gardening, every plant needed not only a different amount of water, but a specific amount of care and attention, and she could never be satisfied unless every last one of them had had this extra _attention_. Carrying bucket after bucket, Erik had watched her test the leaves' color and the plants' health. For some reason, that didn't surprise him at all.

"Damn it, woman! Watch your step!" His angry, deep voice suddenly filled the garden.

The last drop of patience he had, along with his willingness to help her, had disappeared the moment Erik accidentally spilled a bucket filled with water on his foot in order to avoid a collision with Emily's injured wrist. She had apparently decided that that very moment was the proper time and place for a "discussion" with some lilies. If a gaze could kill, the blonde woman would have been buried among her flowers and shrubs long ago. For a minute, Emily had remained still and silent, feeling the danger of an upcoming outburst. Then, pretending another plant had caught her attention, she had moved slowly away while he stood there, kicking the air with his hurt foot to ease the pain, all the while cursing in French. It was a ridiculous sight, and he knew it. A small, shy grin had appeared on Emily's blushing face upon seeing him like that. Her eyes were moist and gleaming from her effort to conceal her laughter. For the first time in his life, Erik had smiled, laughing at himself and the spectacle he – not his face or his mask – had provided. It was more _freeing_ than he had ever imagined, and it unfortunately encouraged Emily, who, five minutes later and after a good laugh, had begun another round of instructions, always managing to get in his way.  
After that, Erik had not volunteered again, preferring to let nature and the rainy English weather take care of Emily's garden.

II II II

Sighing heavily, Erik sat on the edge of the bed to put on his boots. He inspected the space to make sure he had closed every window. In a while, he'd leave, locking the door of this room— a room that no one, except he, had ever put a foot in. Well, no one except that nosy, stupid dog, who usually appeared under his bed, as Erik was the last one to go to sleep, and Blue was not particular as long as he had living, breathing company.

He really didn't want to leave this house, this shelter where he'd surprisingly managed to feel safe again. He had postponed this trip for more than four weeks, but he could not put it off any longer. Since M. Pineaut had sent him a third letter informing him that Madame Giry had, for the third time, failed to appear at his office for her monthly visit and to receive the cheque meant for her, Erik knew that something was wrong. Having Minnette Giry go to M. Pineaut's office to collect the money was a way to check on her. Minnette hadn't had any other source of income since the "unfortunate circumstance" that had left her unemployed, as she had once referred to the destruction of the Opera House. She had been so kind to him back then. Almost too kind to a man who was clearly out of his mind. Erik knew that, as he knew that after Meg's marriage to that vulgar New Yorker who could not tell the difference between a pirouette and an aria, Minnette had been left all alone. He felt he owed it to her to be there for her, to see for himself what was wrong, but he didn't want to go back to Paris. He doubted there was still danger for him there – who would still hunt an old story? The house she lived in had been bought by him precisely because it was out of Paris, away from main roads and other estates. It was ideal for him, but maybe not so ideal for a woman of her age, living alone. Knowing that if she had chosen to travel, she would most certainly have let him know, Erik felt he had no choice.

"Come on, boy! A little exercise won't hurt you," he said as he urged the dog to follow him out of the room so he could lock the door.

II II II

The trip to France wasn't as dreadful as Erik had expected it to be. An ordinary traveler would have needed double the time to arrive to Paris, considering the nights spent in inns and the coaches' schedules. Erik had spent one night in an inn in England, but after he had set foot in France, he had refused such luxury or to use a coach. He had just changed horses, and was on the edge of the forest that hid Minnette's house from prying eyes as the sun began to set. Seeing the little house at the end of the path, the smoke rising from the chimney, and the light behind the curtains at one of the windows in the upper floor, Erik allowed himself to feel how tired he really was.

Could it have been a false alarm? Then why hadn't Minnette replied to his letters? Was it possible that something terrible had happened? Could someone else be living in the house now?

This last thought and his suspicious nature forced him to dismount his horse, leaving it in the forest as he walked silently towards the back of the house. The kitchen door was closed, but through the thick window curtain, Erik could easily detect the form of a woman in the room. Her back was roughly visible through the curtain. He could only see she had her hair in two thick braids – Madame Giry's usual way of fixing her hair – and wore a dark dress. Not wanting to wait any longer, he entered the room. The woman, hearing the noise of the opening door, turned, alarmed, towards the source of the sound, giving Erik a full view of her face. His face turned paler than the mask he wore. Erik was clearly not in command of his voice, and he tried at least twice until a hoarse sound came out of his mouth.

"Christine!"


	7. Choices

Thank you all for reading and reviewing this story!

Special thanks to Desiree and TOWSDNWTBN! You are great!

* * *

**CHAPTER 7- CHOICES **

Christine stood still, just as still as the lifeless wax mannequin that had haunted Erik's nights with false dreams and embarrassment so many years ago. Without even blinking, she just stood there, looking at him. All the color slowly drained from her face, enhancing the bright violet of her wide-open eyes. Erik knew that color and all its shades so well. If Christine talked or made a sound, Erik was sure he couldn't hear her. He just wasn't able to. His ears were buzzing with the sound of his own pulse. He watched her as she slowly lifted a hand to her mouth, trying to restrain…a cry, maybe? Erik painfully forced his mind to start working again. Was her husband inside? Was she trying to call to him? Was it fear that contorted her face? Repulsion, maybe?

To Erik's surprise, Christine took two small, unsteady steps towards him, extending her other hand to him. He slowly walked towards her. He couldn't stop, even if he really wanted to. His hand lifted of its own accord, and Erik watched his bony fingers as they approached her white, much smaller hand. Recognition, along with something else he couldn't identify – surprise? Terror? Disgust? – glinted in Christine's glassy eyes as they grew even wider. Erik longed to feel the warmth of her hand just to make sure she was real. He didn't want to scare her, just to touch her. To make sure she was not an apparition, not a creation of his imagination and his travel-weary mind. The coldness of his soft but firm grip was all Christine actually felt before she fainted in front of his eyes.

II II II

"If Minnette Giry lives in this hellish place, she'll certainly have some smelling salts in the kitchen." That thought had penetrated Erik's mind in a hard effort to focus on something practical, and he inwardly kept repeating it, just to hold a sense of control over the situation. After he had cursed his stupidity a thousand times for not foreseeing the trouble he was in, he tried to concentrate on one problem at the time. Despite his own surprise at seeing her, he had managed to grab Christine before she hit the ground. At the moment, the young woman was lying on a sofa in a small, quite dark room which served as the parlor. There seemed to be no one else on that floor, so he had started his impatient search in the kitchen. Finding nothing of use there, Erik went to the upper floor. A quick look into the well-furnished rooms had revealed only two to be in use. In one of them, Minnette Giry was sound asleep. The bottle with the smelling salts was sitting on her bedside table beside her glasses and a small, framed ink sketch of her daughter, Meg. Grabbing the bottle, Erik noticed how tired she looked. Apparently, there had been no one else in the house other than the two women, but Erik didn't have the time or the clarity to think of a proper reason for that. The thought of the unconscious woman downstairs propelled him out of the room.

Entering the parlor with the smelling salts, Erik noticed, for the first time, the burgundy color of the sofa. The thick fabric's deep color, along with the illumination of the fire, painted red the few stray locks that escaped Christine's long braids. He approached the woman with hesitant steps. She was exactly as he had left her, peacefully lying on the small sofa, as if she had fallen asleep after a long walk in the woods. The familiar smell of roses and lavender filled his unwilling senses. She looked so small herself, so fragile. More like a broken doll than a grown-up woman. His cold fingers guiltily traced the outline of her pale face, her pale cheek, the small, unnoticeable scar on her temple.

Erik looked at her closed eyes, her long eyelashes, still amazed she was in his sight once more. How could someone so fragile have hurt him so much? How had he let her ruin his world? Shaking the useless thoughts out of his mind, he abruptly placed the bottle under her nose, and heard her soft moans at the ammonium smell. Erik took a large step away from the sofa as Christine opened her eyes. He didn't want to scare her more than she already had been.

"I'll go make some tea," he informed her with a husky voice.

Erik needed to be alone for a while. He just couldn't stand to be in the same room with her. Just as her "Angel of Music" story had met its end, now the façade of the deceased, demented tutor had been blown to pieces. Erik leaned against the kitchen counter breathing rapidly, trying to compose himself. Even the cool wooden surface under his open palms was warmer than his hands. No wonder Christine had fainted the moment he had touched her. He had managed to give new meaning to the "living corpse" comparison! Erik balled his fists at the thought.

At first, his shock was beyond comprehension. Just to be able to be around her, see her, hear her voice, breathe her in! He had never thought that would be possible again. That weak, sick part of himself that Erik had tried so hard to get rid of was making its ugly appearance again, and it was his duty to silence it. Christine was a married woman with a child of her own. Erik himself had let her marry the man she loved, the man she deserved. But did she deserve that idiotic man who cared only for sports and fashion?

_No!_ Erik shoved that thought away. What sick set of thoughts was that? He had asked himself that question a thousand times. He knew all too well the final argument, but whatever Erik thought, whatever he had felt back then, this was not an issue of who had won and who had lost. It was an issue of impossibilities, things which were never meant to come true. Christine had made her choice long ago. He had to remember that. He was content with his life. He was free of her and his sick obsession._ He_had let her go. Erik had to remember that, too.

II II II

The tea preparations took a little more time than usual thanks to Erik's trembling hands, the only evidence of his inner turmoil. He waited until all the signs of it disappeared, and gracefully entered the sitting room with the tray in hands. He saw her profile this time and the two thick braids of her long hair. At the moment, not a curl escaped onto her temple and cheeks. Christine wore a plain, dark brown dress with a small piece of lace at the neckline, much like the dresses Emily wore while working around the house. Such clothing was meant to be comfortable, but it was not quite complimentary or remotely suitable for the wife of a vicomte. Where was the moron Adonis? With her child, maybe? What was wrong with Minnette? So many questions needed to be answered, and Erik was definitely not a man of patience.

The woman before him sighed heavily. Leaving the tray on the rosewood table in front of the sofa, Erik watched her turning to face him from her spot near the fireplace. He approached her hesitantly, not saying a word. Christine looked straight into his eyes for what seemed to be minutes. Her rosy lips were nothing but a thin line, and her violet blue eyes had a shade Erik had never seen before; almost black, and gleaming with unshed tears. It was a strong, hard look from a woman Erik knew to be so tender and delicate.

Suddenly, Christine raised her hand and slapped him harshly across the face with all her strength. Since she was shorter than he, the blow intended for his exposed cheek hit him awkwardly but still forcefully on his clenched jaw. The sound of the slap echoed through the room, breaking the electrified silence. Erik's hand instinctively reached for his mask to assure it was still in place. His eyes burned with raw fury. No one had laid a hand on him for many, many years. He had never hit a woman…

With his other hand, he tried to grab her wrist to avoid another slap, but there was no need anymore. Christine's hands fell numbly by her sides. Her face had an expression of complete, utter surprise, as if someone else had controlled and forced her previous action. Christine seemed not to believe what she had just done. Nevertheless, she defiantly lifted her face and looked him in the eyes, waiting for his wrath or his blow. This reaction, uncharacteristic for her, caught Erik completely off guard. He didn't know what to expect from this woman who stood her ground, facing her greatest fear – him. He couldn't be angry with her at this moment when she looked so unexpectedly challenging and helpless at the same time.

When the outburst Christine obviously anticipated didn't come, her resolve seemed to vanish. She slowly sank onto the floor in one slow, fluid motion, her soft dress spread around her. Her tears streamed down her now-flushed cheeks and quickly turned to uncontrollable sobs which threatened to choke her.

Erik was dumbfounded. He had never known how to treat crying women. As a matter of fact, Erik didn't know how to respond to anyone's crying. He realized crying was a release of anguish and pain, a cry for help maybe, but when he was a child, his own tears had been nothing but a sign of weakness and despair that had only brought joy to those who'd tried to break his spirit, so Erik had stopped crying. No one had ever been moved by his tears. He had never received a gesture of comfort for them, so he didn't know how to comfort her. Erik knelt next to Christine, extremely careful not to touch her again. She was embracing herself in a gesture of utter loneliness, trying to comfort herself, moving back and forth, still crying.

"Shhh," Erik whispered with a deep, rich voice which seemed to surround her from every corner of the small room. Christine relaxed a little. "Let me take you to a chair," he offered. His voice entered the walls of her suffering mind, soothing and calming. Erik stood, taking her with him, holding her gently by the arms which were covered by her dress's sleeves, carefully avoiding any contact with her flesh. He guided her to an armchair that he pulled close to the hearth with his leg, never leaving her side.

"Shall I call Minnette?"

"No… Let her sleep… She's had a terrible couple of days. Her legs, her knees…too much pain…" Christine tried to explain between her sobs. He let her rest for a while.

"Do you want some tea?" Erik asked after a while. His offer reminded him of the awkward days in his underground home. He had been so eager to serve her, so desperate to have her by his side. He had actually thought – hoped – that by being civil and playing "tea friends" with her, she would see him differently and stay. Erik felt mad at himself. A few minutes with this Circe and he was turning into her slave all over again. He left the teapot on the tray. The cup had never been filled, but Christine didn't seem to notice and stared at a spot on the carpet. Erik couldn't stand this charade anymore. He had to know some things before he completely lost his temper.

"Where is your husband?" His voice sounded harsh, even to his own ears, but Christine didn't hear him. His anger made the blood run hot in his veins. He wanted some answers, and he wanted them now. "Where is your husband, Madame?" he repeated slowly, every word in a cold, strong, insulting voice.

At this point, Christine must have heard him because she lifted her eyes to his face as if she saw him for the first time this evening.

"You are alive." It was a statement to convince herself of the fact. The unspoken accusation didn't escape Erik. Did she blame him because he had lied? Or because he was actually alive?

Christine stared mercilessly at the white mask covering more than half of Erik's face, examining it, taking in every detail. A deep frown wrinkled his visible brow. The unmasked side of his face was deliberately kept in the shadows.

"I apologize for the inconvenience I'm causing you, Madame, but yes! I can't help it! Indeed, I am alive!" Erik bowed elegantly, spreading his arm as if holding an invisible hat in a grotesque theatrical gesture. Her silence made him more furious than before. "You should never have trusted a ghost, my dear. At least in matters of life and death…You'll be fooled! As you have obviously been!" he said, mocking her.  
"Now, if you please, will you tell me where our lovely vicomte has gone, leaving his precious jewel unguarded from the wicked creatures of the night?  
How careless of him! But then he was always like this – never thinking before acting!"

Erik detested the bitterness in his voice, but found himself unable to prevent it from seeping in as he pushed forward in his probe for answers from his former protégée. The silence in the room was a cacophonous noise in his ears.

Her voice when she spoke sounded as if it were coming from another person, a woman he didn't know. "I've left Raoul. We're not together anymore."

The ceiling must have fallen in on his head. Otherwise there was no explanation for that rush of blood in his temples. She had left the golden boy? For a moment, Erik thought it had been just wishful thinking, but Christine continued with a hard, cruel stare that made him check to see if his mask was tight – an unconscious gesture he always displayed when he felt anxious.

"Are you happy now? Do you feel satisfied at last? Does it fill your black, cruel heart with joy and relief to see us suffer? To drift apart day by day?" Her voice was full of venom. Christine stood by the window, putting some distance between them. Her eyes were filled with something Erik could only describe as hatred, a look that brought back memories that haunted him, of a brief moment in time when he had threatened to kill Raoul in front of her, so long ago.

Erik had never been more confused in his life. Was he hearing right? All this anger, all this hate in her voice was meant for him? Why? Because he had allowed her to live with the man SHE had chosen? His eyes were clouded with pure anger. What was his sin now? Was he to be blamed for all the miseries in her life?

"I refuse to feel responsible for something that is NOT my doing." He spit the words one by one out of his mouth as though spitting poison. "If you'd care to inform me of what I had to do with this, my 'black, cruel heart' will rejoice accordingly, Madame!"

Christine didn't answer. She kept looking at him with her dark eyes, burning him like coals.

"I do believe, Madame, it is finally time for you to GROW UP!" he growled. "You can't blame anyone but YOURSELF for your misfortunes." He paused momentarily before adding the rest of his thought "…for your CHOICES!"

"You destroyed my life. You ruined it…" Christine whispered with eyes full of despair, turning away from his hard stare.

Christine shook visibly. It was as if all the windows of the room had suddenly burst open to let the cold wind inside. Erik approached her with agonizingly slow steps, as if his feet were made of stone, each step more intimidating than the other. Christine froze, as if feeling his dead, cold grip around her neck, even though he wasn't even at arm's length yet. Erik saw her rubbing her neck, realizing what she must have been thinking. A satisfied smirk lazily formed on his face. A small dose of fear was a familiar emotion from her. Even though he hated it, he had something. A glimpse of the old Christine in front of him.

"Don't you dare tell me I destroyed your life," he hissed. "I wasn't the one who left to become a member of nobility, to marry a handsome moron with the looks of a fairy tale knight!" The visible part of his face contorted with utter disgust, forming an image more frightening than the mask that covered the other half.

"What is it, Madame? Have you gotten bored with his beauty? It is said that one can get used to both beauty and ugliness. It is only _stupidity_that no one can ever get used to, for it never fails to amaze or surprise us!" At this, Christine flushed with fury, but remained silent. He found he preferred seeing this unfamiliar anger on her features as opposed to the drawn, pained face which had been looking at him before. It was her silence, though, her insolence that irritated him the most. Erik chose to provoke her a little bit more.

"I wasn't the one with a choice, Madame," Erik continued, whispering now straight into her ear, his mouth so close to her long neck. "_You_ were, and you _chose_. Now YOU have to live with it!" He almost felt the wicked, avenging joy that filled his voice, feeling the old emotions of the long-gone Phantom creeping back into him.

Erik guiltily watched her turn pale. Her face was whiter than the ashes in the hearth.  
Something inside him urged him to stop, to take pity on her, but he had never been good at restraining himself around her or controlling his temper. He was circling her, moving with small, relentless steps, constantly around her, making her dizzy. Sometimes facing her face, other times whispering, almost on her neck, as if performing a strange sort of dance. Never actually touching her, but way too close for the propriety normally demanded. To Christine's eyes, he must have been like the predator preparing his victim for the final hit, but Erik himself didn't know what his next hit was going to be. It was a different torture for each of them.

"Don't get me wrong, my dear." _Her face was so close to his face._ "I really can't blame you for your choice!" _Her long eyelashes hiding her eyes from him._ "As a matter of fact, I think I would finally have thought less of you had you chosen differently…" _The soft curve of her white neck, tempting him to touch it._ "You see, the past few years, I've had the...clarity to think things through…" _The bright color of her hair trapped in those strict, hateful braids. _"I completely understand your point of view…" _Her mouth, her moist lips trembling, betraying her uneven breathing._"After all, what kind of perverse woman would prefer this?" Erik waved his hand, pointing angrily at his face, shaking every other treacherous thought from his mind.

"Stop it!" Christine shouted. "You can't see my point of view. You couldn't, no matter how hard you might try."

"Why don't you enlighten me then, my dear?" Erik hissed. "But please," he continued in a mocking tone. "Let's try to be civil this time!" A sardonic half-smirk slowly formed on his exposed face. Erik's reference to her earlier outburst seemed to make her more angry and desperate. "I don't think there is anything more interesting to do during these long, boring hours." The false expression of indifference on his face mocked her again.

"You don't understand…" She put her hands on her ears as if she wished to hear him no more.

"No! I don't! I really don't! I wasn't the one who came back, only to leave. I wasn't the one anxious and blushing, hurriedly walking down the aisle…"

"You were there …at the church. I'd sensed it… you were there!" Christine whispered more to herself.

"Of course not!" Erik lied effortlessly. "The world doesn't turn around you! There is no need for great imagination to assume you were married in white or that you were blushing…Maybe _this _is the boy's fault after all. His lack of imagination…"

"Stop it! Stop! I can't hear you anymore! What are you accusing me of? Of choosing a man who DID NOT LIE to me for years? Who did not pretend to be someone else? Who did not manipulate me, treat me like a fool? A man who did not frighten me?" It was her turn to become cruel, and she seemed to deeply enjoy it. "Who did not have the blood of others on his hands? Did not make me choose between him and the whole world?"

"You didn't see any problem with his having MY blood on HIS hands, if my memory serves me right, Madame!" That last remark seemed to hit the target. She bowed her head and remained silent.

"Am I boring you, Madame? Why did you stop these 'sweet memories' from floating to the surface? It's always good to know what others think about you. Somehow, you've avoided telling me what happened with the golden boy. Maybe HE was bored. Noblemen do have a tendency to take their 'little treasures' for granted."

Christine looked at him with a hard, cold stare.

"Excuse me!" Erik pretended to apologize "It's not unusual for someone who fought a _monster _to turn into a 'monster' himself. After all, it's easy to fight a monster. It is a noble fight. I hope he was equally brave in fighting his own kind, too." Erik saw her wince at his word, but she remained silent. "I didn't mean to question your blissful marriage, but something must have happened for you to leave your dream life and come live with Madame Giry in MY house!" Erik emphasized the last words, and they had the shocking effect he anticipated. He was sure Minnette hadn't revealed who owned the house, and it was interesting to watch Christine's facial expressions change as she realized she was actually his guest.

The voice that came out of her mouth was cold, detached, devoid of all emotion, the voice of a woman who seemed to have been disconnected from her body, from her own soul. Erik felt a chill run down his spine. Nothing good could be contained in that voice.

"I was pregnant with a child, a son." Christine looked him in the eyes to see the effect the news had on him. When he showed no surprise, anger glinted in her eyes again. It was Erik's turn to remain silent. "I see it's no news to you. Then you must already know what happened. I'll fill in the details for you," she said icily. Erik didn't dare to interrupt or correct her in her assumption.

"As you may already know, I had a difficult pregnancy from the beginning. I had to lie in bed the whole time, but it was worth it to have a healthy baby. I was almost six months pregnant when I heard the 'news' of your death. I couldn't believe it at first. I guess I should have trusted my instinct." Her stare was cruel. "As you know, I gave birth to my son, Jean Pierre, a month later." Her face softened at the mention of her son's name. Her eyes focused on her hands on her lap. A faint smile appeared on her face.

"I heard his cry, a soft, gentle cry that was…like music in my ears. He was tiny, but he was my beautiful, perfect son. I sang to him the Persian lullaby you had sung for me. Remember? About the warm sun that guards our days, the shy moon that lightens our nights. He was safe. He relaxed in his mother's arms, in the arms of the one person in the world who should have cared for him and protected him from any harm. I held my Jean Pierre in my arms for an hour until the maid finally managed to take him from me. You see, my son died five minutes after he came into the world. He escaped that world so soon. He left me all alone… The only thing he had time to hear was that Persian lullaby and his mother's voice. He never saw the sun, only darkness… I never saw the color of his eyes. I don't know what my only child's eyes looked like… What kind of mother does that make me?" Her voice was still calm, still cold. Christine was sitting on the sofa, speaking with no emotion, as though discussing the weather during a social visit, but the void in her tearless eyes was heartbreaking.

Erik felt his knees weaken. He couldn't comprehend that kind or amount of pain. The image of her, singing to her baby, couldn't leave his mind. What could he ever say in response to something so unthinkable? Was there any pain more unbearable than the loss of a child?

"Do you want to know what your 'spies' may not have told you? Do you want to know what kind of mother I truly was? I was a mother with a _choice_! So many choices in my life! And I did make that choice, but no one listened to me, no one cared for my will. They'd treated me like a fool again, like a mindless doll. They'd lied to me. HE lied to me." Christine saw the confusion in his eyes. A grim laugh escaped her mouth.

"You don't understand, do you? How does it feel to a man as intelligent as you are when you don't understand something? I'm so used to this emotion…" Her blank look was unnerving. "Where was I? Ahh, yes…at the choice. Well, I had a choice. Raoul had a doctor, a family doctor. The doctor had said that if an operation were performed, the child would have many possibilities of living – unlike the mother. If we proceeded to the natural way of birth, that would have been best for the mother, but fatal for the child. I chose my child. Raoul chose his wife. We both lost." A light smile was on her face, mocking the seriousness of her words.

Erik had to put his hands on the back of the armchair in front of him to help his legs hold his weight. His knees had almost betrayed him. For once, he was glad her gaze was locked on her hands. Her last words shook him to the core. He cupped his one hand with the other to seize their trembling.

All he could think of at the moment was of the possibility that Christine might not have been standing in front of him. She might not have lived at all if her husband had chosen differently back then. That there had been a day when he had been working at the Twin House or eating or playing the piano or doing something equally trivial while Christine faced death for herself and her child, and he had known nothing about it. He had been away, so far away. Her husband had been forced to choose between them, and she was blaming him for doing what Erik himself would have done without a second thought, even if it meant burning in hell for killing an innocent child.

Erik felt sick, but managed to control it. He tried to hear what she was saying – something about Raoul. At that moment, he silently promised himself that the man would not be physically harmed by his hand, not anymore, not after what he had done, after what Erik owed him.

"...poor Raoul, he couldn't have guessed what the result of his decision would be. Afterwards, the doctor told him this 'ordeal' had had another side effect. The Vicomtesse de Chagny is incapable of providing him with an heir. Isn't it funny? If he had listened to me before, at least he would have a son now…"

"Don't say that!" Erik almost yelled, goaded by her cynical words. "Don't say that…" He tried to control himself. "You are young. Doctors are not always right."

"Such words coming from your mouth sound like a bad joke." Christine mocked his attempts at consolation.

"One day, you'll realize your husband did the only thing he could have done at the time, you'll forgive him, and you'll carry on with your lives." Erik said, agitated by her derision.

"Don't you think that would have happened by now, all this time we've been living apart? How can I care for another child when I failed to save the one I held in my arms?  
Such a 'typical male' way of thinking! 'Let's buy another dress, Christine. You may forget your son. Let's go abroad, Christine. You may forget your son…'"

"I didn't say that. I just said…I meant, it is a husband's obligation to keep his wife safe." Why did he defend the man? Did that unrecognizable, husky voice really belong to him? "I mean…in his place… I would have done the same." Erik's voice was barely audible.  
That was totally out of place. He knew it. Erik felt his face burning, but it was the only way to express his relief that she was alive, even if it doomed him in her eyes. As a last nail in his coffin and in her husband's defense, Erik heard himself saying, "It was his child, too."

"You don't understand, Erik. There is so much you will never understand…"

He felt insulted by her statement, but hearing his name in that soft, motherly tone, obviously affected by her baby's memory, was a caress to his soul.

II II II

"How did you end up here, helping Minnette?" His voice was like liquid velvet in her ears. Christine recognized that tone from the past, from whenever he had tried to make her feel better, to comfort her. She let herself taste the warmth of his voice once more.

"She has helped me. Raoul knows nothing of this place. He wouldn't find me here, and I didn't want to be found. I didn't want to talk anymore…"

"Come, sit here by the fire. It's getting cold," Erik commanded softly, but didn't guide her this time.

Christine sat down in the armchair again. She hadn't realized she was trembling. Erik gave her his jacket to use as a blanket. She accepted it without protest. He turned his back to her, leaning on the mantel of the stone fireplace.

"I never meant to hurt you by lying to you. Minnette was not allowed to reveal anything. She didn't have any part in this. I just wanted you to feel free. I thought it would help us move on…"

"Move on? Did you honestly think I could have moved on this way? Everyone was dying on me, Erik! You first, then my baby. My teacher, my last link with my past, with what I was, and my child…my only chance for a future."

"I didn't know about the baby. I... had only heard you were having a baby. I didn't know all the rest. I am sorry."

It was his first apology to her, but Christine was too angry with him to appreciate it.

"Why are you sorry, Erik? Because you have pretended to be dead? Because you have lied to me once again? Played with my feelings? My guilt? What is it exactly you are sorry for?"

"Don't blame me for everything!" He slammed his fist onto the mantle, knocking down some candlesticks. "If your son were healthy and alive, you would be happily married, living with your husband, and I would be happily…buried in your memories!" He turned his head again to the dying flames.

"I am sorry," he repeated after a while with effort. "I regret that I didn't know any of this." His voice was soft again, lulling her to a warm, safe place in her mind. "I regret that I wasn't there for you."

His back was turned to her, so it was the best time for Christine to look at him without his realizing she was staring. Erik looked well, extremely well, as a matter of fact.  
He had always been a well-built man with his tall frame and his strong body, all nerves and muscles. No one could have survived on his own, five cellars underground, if unable to attend to his every need without help. _He_had never needed the equestrian excursions Raoul was so keen on to keep him in shape, or fencing exercises, but now there was something different about him. He wasn't so unearthly thin anymore. His lean body looked healthier. He had a different aura around him that Christine couldn't describe. Despite his unchanging temper that Christine knew so well, Erik seemed calmer, more at peace with himself, and more remote in a way. Did he even feel all the crushing feelings she was having just seeing him after all these years? Or maybe that was the answer. The time, which had passed so excruciatingly slowly for her, tormenting her mind, her body, her soul, testing her limits – maybe this tormenting time had healed him of his unfruitful passion for her, his obsession, even his love. Did that make her feel safer, more secure? Why did she feel emptier, more cold and lonely than she ever had felt before?

Christine watched him as he tried to keep the fire in the hearth alive, the only source of illumination in the room. The shadows were so familiar and comforting, like a warm blanket upon her. Just like his jacket on her, the shadows were redolent of him, of his warmth. She felt her eyes closing against her will. How could she be so angry with him at one moment and so tired and sleepy the next? There still existed that spell his presence had always had. Always so intimidating and powerful, her Angel was like a force of nature. Like a living storm or thunder embodied in human form, with all his rage and temper. But at the same time, with equal force and devotion, he could soothe you, calm you, lift you from your miserable being, to a place where everything else seemed so small and meaningless. She rested her head on the chair, her eyelids unwillingly closing in a deep sleep, no matter how badly she wanted to remain awake.


	8. Darkness and light

I hope you, all, had a nice weekend!

Thank you for reading and reviewing—Virtual hugs!

My deepest gratitude to Desiree and TOWSDNWTBN. You are great!

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**CHAPTER 8- Darkness and light**

"Minnette, what's wrong with her? You must know something more. What has happened?" Erik's demanding tone filled the bedroom, his lack of patience evident in every move of his slender body. His tall frame looked disproportionate to such a small room. "She obviously isn't well. She's not herself!" This time, his tone was a peculiar mix of worry, concern, and irritation. He rubbed his uncovered temple as if trying to ease an upcoming headache. The woman, lying on the bed, held the delicate cup of tea he had just served her with trembling hands, taking a small sip of the hot, sweet liquid.

"I'm not sharing secrets, Erik. Of all people, you should know that. When Christine feels it is right, she will tell you herself." Minnette Giry sounded adamant. "Do not worry so much, though. She is a strong girl, but the shock of your sudden appearance has just overwhelmed her. Do not forget. All these years, she had thought you dead. She must have thought she saw a ghost!" A hint of a smirk appeared on Minnette's wary face.

Erik opened his closed eyes, looking at her intensely. Not saying a word, he leaned against the wall behind him, crossing his long legs. His arms were folded over his chest in a careless but still graceful manner; his mind obviously focused on the woman sleeping in the parlor. Minnette thought he still cut an imposing figure, even outside the Opera House. It was the way he carried himself that drew attention to him, and then of course that white piece of leather on his face.

"She has told me about her child," he stated emotionlessly.

"There you are! You already know, and you're trying to bait me into revealing her secrets. This is not the way of a gentleman, you know," Minnette said with a scowl.

"I have never claimed to be a gentleman, Madame. I only pretend to be one! Of all people, you should know that." Erik repeated her previous remark with a look of pure sarcasm on the uncovered half of his face.

"Only a true gentleman would come all the way from England to check on an old woman in need," Minnette stated with a faint smile.

"You are not old, Minnette. And I'm not willing to satisfy your vanity or your need for compliments," he said with a frown, and his eyes locked on his dirty, black leather boots.

"I was just trying to thank you. What you did means a lot to me. Why can't you accept something as small as a 'thank you'?" Her voice quivered a little.

"Let us both agree you are as terrible at saying 'thank you' as I am at accepting it. I'm not in the mood for ridiculous conversations. There are more important issues we should talk about," Erik exclaimed in a serious tone, but his stare, directed towards her, was soft.

"Come on. Sit in this chair." Minnette patted the chair near her bed with a genuine smile on her face. "Tell me your news. How's England?"

"You are not fooling me, Minnette. There is something more in this story. I can sense it. Why didn't Christine forgive him? The only thing the man did was not allow his wife to die, and you know how much I despise being the one to defend him."

"He saved her, but in her mind, he killed her child. How can a mother forgive that? Christine's greatest ambition was not to become a diva. Before you, she hadn't even known she had a decent voice. She always wanted a family. She wanted to belong in a family of her own. All her thoughts, all her choices were concentrated on that purpose." Minnette knew her choice of words would hurt him. She watched his effort to show nothing; she had almost deliberately tested him.

Erik had nodded at the word "family"; he had flinched at "choices." He knew all too well what his flaws were, where he lacked. He didn't need a reminder. Sometimes over the years, Minnette had found herself thinking whether maybe his limitless love and possessiveness back then formed the answer to Christine's need to belong. But these were nothing but mere thoughts. None of them were the same people anymore. Erik looked more composed than ever. The old Phantom would have kidnapped the girl by now and be on his way to England, trying to make her love him. The old Christine wouldn't have been that shell filled with rage and anger at the whole world.

"I guess _you _should understand better than anyone what pain and loss does to people. For those left behind, there is just hope…" She stared at her cane by the bed. Minnette knew about loss and pain.

"How's Meg doing in America?" Erik asked, following her gaze.

"She is doing fine. She keeps writing letters, inviting me there – as if I would go!"

"And you won't?" Erik raised his visible eyebrow as a sardonic smirk formed on his face.

"Of course not!" She was adamant.

"Aren't you tired of this, Minnette? I knew you were stubborn and strict, but I didn't expect that from you. She is your daughter, for God's sake!"

"I didn't know you believe in God, Erik!" Minnette said spitefully.

"You know I don't, as I know you do!" he retorted.

"How can you not believe in God? He's all around us!" Minnette said after a few minutes of strained silence. She waved her hand in an elegant gesture, reminding him of what a great dancer she had been.

"I have found it difficult to be part of His family, Madame. He just doesn't seem eager to have me! On the other hand, there is this issue of trust… from my side, anyway! To be part of a family where the 'Father,' having all the power in the world, let his only son be tortured and crucified has no appeal to me." Erik seemed to enjoy the way she frowned at him enormously, and her lips became a straight line. Minnette was extremely annoyed, and apparently he had missed being the cause of her annoyance.

"You know better than …"

"Yes, I do," he said, interrupting her, boredom evident in his voice. "I know what you are going to say about teaching a lesson to mankind. I have heard all that before. If I could forgive His lack of imagination as a _tutor_, I could never forgive His violent nature. I ought to be grateful my parents didn't follow His steps. Poor Jesus wasn't even deformed in the first place. A little naïve maybe about human nature…"

Seeing that she was fuming, Erik must have decided to spare her the agony of his lost soul. "Anyway, that is not our subject now, Minnette. Meg is!"

"Since when have you become so forgiving, Erik? First Raoul, then Meg…"  
The sarcastic tone in her voice was not appreciated by the masked man before her.

"You know damn well I wouldn't care less if_ he _burned in hell!" His voice was deliberately held low, but fury was pouring from every word he said. "In fact, I would've rather enjoyed it enormously as long as he burned ALONE! Don't try to make me angry, Minnette. It isn't working!"

He could have fooled her. His flaring nostril and his clenched fists could have fooled her, too. As a matter of fact, this was the closest she had seen the _Phantom _since the night of the fire. They stared at each other for a while until a small smile appeared on Minnette's tired face. Erik sat on the chair she had pointed to earlier with a heavy sigh. He seemed tired, too.

"All I'm saying is that it isn't worth it. So much anger, so much bitterness. You love your daughter. She loves you. If nothing else, this is poisoning her life! You are a better mother than that. I'm not saying you should go to that… barbaric place. Just send her a letter. It will make things better."

"When did you become such an expert on human relations?" She wasn't mocking him.

"I read a lot," he said, mocking himself. "And I prefer to keep things simple. The simpler, the better! That is my motto these days."

She looked him straight in the eyes, trying to estimate the amount of honesty his words had. His half smile was relentlessly mocking her attempt. She resigned the effort, taking another sip of her now-cold tea.

"How's England? How are people there?" she finally asked, changing the subject again.

"Too many for my taste. I honestly don't know what they despise about me more. _This_…" he gestured wearily at his mask. "Or the fact that I'm French."

"How is that boy you once wrote me about?"

"James? He's fine. He has grown so much…He is eleven now. I can't describe how smart he is! Really intelligent! I'm teaching him mathematics and history. French, too." Erik half smiled to himself, looking at his palms "He's so eager to learn, and I miss hearing French. I believe I'm even thinking in English now. It's pathetic!"

"The first time I've actually seen you smile, Erik, is now, speaking of James." Her comment was made in hopes of making him feel more comfortable, to invite him to open up. Instead, it had the opposite effect. She had forgotten how guarded Erik was about his feelings, sometimes even guarding them from himself.

"There is nothing to smile about. James is a smart boy. I teach him, and he works for me. Nothing more." With these words, he stood up. "If you need anything, I'll be in my room."

II II II

The next four days passed in an indescribable fuss. Minnette's knees, damaged from all the years of dancing, did hurt more than usual, but she couldn't decide if Erik and Christine overreacted out of concern for her or because of their need to avoid each other. Erik and Christine had silently split the 24 hours of the day into six watches. When Christine was keeping her company, Erik fixed the sitting room window, which "didn't close properly," or the fence, or went to the village to collect the last four months' worth of mail, a task Christine had avoided like hell. When Erik was with Minnette, Christine was always busy cooking some simple meals since her culinary skills had never been great, or was washing dishes. As it seemed, they couldn't stand to be in the same room for more than five minutes, even though they were always polite to each other, at least in front of her.

II II II

Sitting by her bed, Erik was reading Minnette the latest Jules Verne novel, _A Tour of the World in Eighty Days_. His deep, melodious voice usually calmed her, when he didn't choose to entertain her with his lively, animated narrations and his mocking comments about the heroes. This night, the trick didn't work. The pain was more torturesome than ever, and Minnette tossed and turned in an attempt to find a less painful position for her hurting joints. Seeing her discomfort, Erik stopped reading, and left the book on the bedside table.

"I'll bring you something to ease the pain. Try to relax."

Minnette nodded, closing her eyes.

He had just closed the door of her room to leave her to rest when the opposite door opened, and Christine appeared in the doorway.

"Is everything all right? I heard you stop reading," she said, blushing.

"I apologize. I must have left the door open."

"It's fine. I like hearing you read. You know that." She blushed more.

Did he? No, he didn't. Erik realized this was the first kind word he had heard from her mouth since he had come to the house, and its warmth filled the air around him. He felt his face turn red, too.

"I'll make some tea for Minette. Do you want some?" he offered.

"I'll come with you. I'm a little hungry."

They worked in the kitchen in an awkward, tense silence, watching each other's movements. When the tea was ready, Erik opened a tiny blue bottle he had had in his waistcoat pocket, and poured ten droplets into the cup.

"What is that?" Christine asked with a curious look on her face.

"It will calm her, make her sleep for a while. Let the salve work. I'll leave it here." He pointed at the kitchen's drawer. "You may give it to her only when she's in great pain. No more than once a day, and no more than ten droplets at a time. One more than ten, and it will be fatal. Do you understand me? " Erik spoke slowly, always looking in her eyes. He was dead serious.

"No more than ten," Christine repeated to make sure she had heard it correctly. "Do you always carry possibly fatal medicine with you?" she asked with a suspicious smile on her face.

Erik waved his hand in a gesture of boredom. "You know how I despise doctors. It's good to have some drugs on hand, especially when travelling." He left the room with the tray in his hands.

When he came back to the kitchen with the empty cup, Christine was still standing by the drawer, looking seriously at the blue bottle held firmly in her palm. An ugly thought entered his mind. What was he thinking, leaving a poison in the hands of a depressed woman? How could he be that reckless, that foolish? With soundless steps, he approached her and snatched the bottle from her hands. Either because of the shock of his sudden movement or the cold touch of his hand – for once, Erik couldn't care less – Christine recoiled, taking a large step back.

"What are you doing?" she asked him in fury, but slowly, her expression changed as she took in the meaning of his action. "Do you honestly think I'm going to kill myself with your drug? Why? To make you feel guilty?" Her hard stare was locked on his face.  
Erik shrugged his shoulders. It was maybe foolish of him, but he felt better just holding the wretched bottle in his hands.

"Do you think I've waited for your 'magic drug' before thinking of dying? I didn't take my life when I thought I had killed you and my son." There was something wild in her eyes.

"When the whole world collapsed around me, I remembered you, Erik." Her voice belonged to that other woman, that drained, stiff woman Erik didn't recognize. "I remembered what you had once said: 'Only cowards can't stand the blows,' and I laughed. I really laughed. Raoul must have thought me crazy then. I was laughing at the absurdity of this statement. Only a man would have thought it bravery to stand one blow after the other, one hit after the other. Never give up…Never give in. I would have given up in a minute if that had meant stopping the suffering, and never have cared whether I was thought to be brave or a coward. I don't care what other people think of me anymore, what they believe I should do, or what is right. You ought to be proud of me." Her sarcastic words were burning him. He couldn't stand to be around her when she was like that. It was as if his Christine were dead, and her body possessed by this strange, cynical, bitter woman.

"Do you know what has kept me alive these past few years, Erik? Do you remember what you'd told me when I'd asked you once why anger should be your first response to everything?" She paused for a while as he remained silent, staring at her. He obviously wasn't going to answer her question, even though the memory of that bitter conversation was engraved in his mind. "I do! You said anger had been what kept you going all these years, what gave you the strength, the energy to move on. See what a good student I was? Aren't you proud of me now?"

Erik was speechless. He couldn't utter a word in reply to this outburst, to this display of anger and despair. He just managed to remain silent, watching her. He felt her stormy blue eyes burning holes in his face, his mask, accusingly, exposing his every weakness, his every fault. Her pale face, her tight mouth, the deep frown on her beautiful face, her fragile frame made her look like – God help her – a ghost of her former lively self which had been full of innocent joy. In his mind, Christine had always been the exact opposite of him, always expecting the best from people and life, a little naïve in her innocence, unaware of the cruelty of the world, but always seeing life as a miracle to be discovered. Whenever he had felt tired of his gloomy self, just a glimpse of Christine's smile had been enough to show him the world was not just night and despair. Where was that smile now? Now Christine looked more wise and old, as if carrying all the burden of the world on her petite shoulders. Not once had a smile softened her face. Her maturity had cost her her love for life, her special way of seeing the world, and he was the first to blame for that loss, that slow death which was taking place before his eyes.

"Do you know what anger and guilt can do to a person? Take a look at me, Erik! What do you see now? Do you know how many days I've spent thinking about what I would have done if I hadn't been so weak? Would I have dared to act differently if I had known I had nothing to lose? You haunted my life! Just the thought of you dead. You have never truly released me, Erik. I felt so guilty because of the way I had treated you, of the way I had left you to die. I thought God had punished me by taking my child. I thought YOU took my child! And now… what a surprise! You are alive! If you wanted to punish me for denying you, here you are! Are you satisfied? What's left for me now? Perhaps I should use your 'magic' drug after all! What a relief that would be!" Christine laughed, seeing the terror in his eyes.

"Don't look so scared, Erik! I wouldn't put that weight on your conscience, in case you have one. I don't blame you. Not anymore. I should have never blamed you. I always knew you were not like the rest of us…"

He flinched as if her words had dealt him a physical blow, but she didn't seem to notice.

"I have found more darkness inside me than you would ever dare to believe existed! Sometimes I wonder if that was what drove you to me. Did you see that darkness, too?"

"Darkness and light go together. You can't have one without the other, Christine." His voice broke. He retreated to the safety of the shadows as she closed her eyes.

"It is the first time you've said my name since you arrived…" Christine paused for a while, then continued, almost whispering to herself. "No one says my name as you do." She shook her head, looking at him softly.

"Don't worry about me, Erik! I could never take my life. You see, I'm the only one who remembers my little Jean Pierre. If I die, he dies with me, and I can't let that happen, not intentionally, anyway." She smiled at him. "It's just that seeing you has brought all that back to mind." She waved her hand in a resigned gesture. "Sometimes I wonder how my life would have been if I had never met you, if you had never entered my life…"

"I'll go check on Minnette," Erik said hastily with a rough voice, and left her alone in the kitchen.

He had to get away from her. He had to leave, to run away from this house. Did that make him a coward? Not standing his ground, taking the next blow? Then coward, for the first time in his life, he was! He alone had done more damage to this woman than fate and destiny put together. Erik couldn't stand being the cause of her pain, the constant reminder of her suffering, and the most selfish reason, of course, was that he could not stand the hate in her eyes. It had been so easy when he thought he was the only victim, the only one suffering. If he had had some little experience of the world of human nature, he might have guessed that these predicaments can never have happy endings for any of the parts involved. But Erik didn't know anything about humans or human nature.

_He was not like the rest of them…_Her words echoed in his head. He was nothing but a strange, wild animal with a less-than-mediocre disguise of a human being, which didn't fool anyone, no matter how hard he had tried. Deep down, Erik had always known he was the animal other people had often tried to tame, to cage. Pretending he was a man, learning all the knowledge and skills mankind had to offer was, for him, like the preparation of an actor for the most important role in his life – maybe the reason he loved theatre so much.

If he were a noble man, he should have dug a hole in the earth. He should have crawled inside, and hid, as he had done before, but a noble man he was not…

After a quick check in Minnette's room, Erik returned to his room, and hurriedly packed the few belongings and clothes he had brought with him. No one heard him when he left in the middle of the night. On his bed there was a hastily written letter with financial instructions to Minnette, most of the money he had carried, and a simple note addressed to Christine with just two words written inside: "Forgive me."


	9. Everyone has a past

Thank you all for reading and reviewing!

Virtual hugs to Desiree and TOWSDNWTONBIKTH (The-One-Who-Still-Does-Not-Wish-To-be-Named-But-I-Keep-Teasing-Her)!

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**CHAPTER 9 - Everyone has a past**

It was late in the evening, and Emily was sitting in her favorite armchair in front of the kitchen fireplace. She absentmindedly stared at the linen she had washed the day before. The soft breeze coming from the hill was ideal, and the sheets would dry fast, before the rain started again. The jasmine aroma of her tea filled her senses, relaxing her in a way only jasmine tea and ginger cookies could.

A large grin formed on her face when Emily remembered Erik's reaction the first time she had ever baked ginger cookies at the Red Door Cottage. Entering the house through the kitchen door, the tall, usually impassive masked man hadn't had the time or the intention of covering the expression of pure, utter disgust that contorted the visible half of his face. Erik had almost growled as he asked in a surprised voice, "What in Hell's name is that awful smell?"

At first, Emily had been extremely offended. It was her late mother's recipe he had been talking about. Her flushed face and pursed lips must had been indication enough for him to understand he had hurt her feelings, because he tried to control his reaction to the offending smell. In vain! A grimace was stuck on his face, as if he might throw up at any minute. Fear for her job combined with pure irritation filled Emily's veins at seeing his rude reaction to two hours' worth of work. Only when it was politely but thoroughly explained that he absolutely hated ginger in every form, use, or recipe had Emily relaxed and promised to bake her favourite cookies when Erik was working and let the fresh air take all the smell out of the room. He didn't seem very satisfied that this "disgusting essence" would be filling his house even during his absence, but he tried to be reasonable.

Emily realized that baking ginger cookies had been allowed her only as compensation for her recent experience with the Voice.

Emily wasn't a woman who was easily scared. She wasn't afraid of the ghosts and all the villagers' nonsense. Every time she wondered whether she would have been so eager to accept her job had she known the story of the poor women's deaths or about the reclusive masked man, she remembered Mr. Spencer at her former job and his "wandering" hands, and thanked her good fortune.

Erik himself had very few demands. He had shown her how to clean the music room and the exact way he wanted his pens and inkbottle on the desk positioned: just beside the clean staff sheets which waited for him to fill them with those unreadable scribbles.

Each morning, he told her, there would be two piles of paper on the piano: on the left side, the compositions worthy of keeping, and on the right, the ones for burning in the fire. Apparently, Erik wrote down the pieces he had composed during the night, and before leaving the room, he divided his work into the two piles. The problem was that every morning, Emily found the pile on the right-hand side full of papers…and no papers at all on the other side. Sometimes, pieces of torn parchment and crumpled music sheets were littered all over the floor. After several days in a row of throwing the papers on the fire, one day she just didn't do it. Emily couldn't find it in her heart to destroy the music she had heard the night before. So powerful and angry at the beginning but with a soft, sad ending she had cried herself to sleep with.

The voice she had heard calling her that afternoon from the music room was cold as ice penetrating her mind. By that time, Emily was familiar with the masked man's voice. Though beautiful, it had something unnerving, an eerie quality that could either insert itself in your head for hours like a song that you couldn't stop hearing, or shake you to the core, as if you were living your last hour on earth.

When she entered the room, the masked man stood rigid by the piano, tapping his long fingers on the clean, black, wooden surface. Whether it was his intimidating posture and tensed shoulders which made her shiver, or whether, for the first time, she realized how truly tall he was, Emily still couldn't say. As he towered over her, furrowing his brow, dressed all in black except for the small visible piece of his white shirt which she had starched herself -_where was the gentle man who had thanked her in the morning as if she weren't paid for the work?_- she seriously thought of running out of the room.

Time seemed to stand still as he lowered his head in a deliberately slow manner to get a clear, close look at her eyes. Only several hours later was Emily able to register in her conscious mind the odd colour of his narrowing eyes. At the time, her gaze had been fixed on a vein madly throbbing at his left temple. Not a very reassuring sight!  
His strong, deadly-cold voice still echoed in her ears: "Exactly what part of my instructions to throw away these papers were you incapable of understanding, Madame?"

Emily felt like crying. The carefully rehearsed speech she had planned vanished from her mind like steam from a pot. She was damn sure that if she stayed a minute longer in that room, with Erik staring at her like that, she would surely burst into tears in front of him, apologizing like a frightened child. Only her pride guided her as she took the papers in her hands and, holding them firmly to her bosom, ran out of the room like a scared rabbit, leaving him standing there with his mouth open with surprise.

Of course, she would not have been Kate Millen's daughter if she had not kept the papers in her room, unable to let a man have his way. From that day on, though Erik was sure his compositions were being burned, Emily's trunk was getting full…

II II II

Emily was gathering the books James had left all over the massive mahogany desk and the sofa in the library when Erik's tall figure filled the doorframe. The warning bell he had installed at the front gate had not been heard, but he had always had a way to disengage it when he wanted, a way even James hadn't figured out yet.

It was after midnight, and James had retired to his room, was probably sleeping already, and the man before her had a strange, dark expression on his face that sent shivers down her spine. His clothes were soaked through from the rain that had started some days ago with no signs of stopping. He looked exhausted in a way that Emily hadn't seen before. Erik had the face of a haunted man. His steps were heavy, as was his breathing, and he tiredly shed his wet, long, black overcoat. Without a word, he settled into his armchair by the fire. For a moment, in that uncanny silence in the library, under the veil of the shadows the fire was forming on his lean, dark silhouette, a frightening thought crossed Emily's mind. Just for a minute, she thought the rumors were true, that Jane and Gillian's ghosts truly existed and had caught him on his lone way home, haunting his mind and sanity with their torturous plans.

She quickly shook the silly thought out of her head and approached him with slow, hesitant steps. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard his eerie, ragged voice.

"Emily! Forgive my manners… I hadn't seen you…" His French accent was more evident than before, tickling her ears.

"Are you tired, sir? Do you want something to drink? Some tea, maybe?"

"Don't start with 'sir' again. I haven't been away more than three weeks…sit down. I'd like some company tonight. If it's all right with you…" Erik added, remembering his good manners again. "Some of the doctor's 'medicine' wouldn't be bad," he said, reconsidering her offer. "Help yourself to a glass of malt if you'd like."

Emily prepared two glasses of the Scottish malt whisky and handed him his before she sat on the sofa opposite his armchair, self-consciously pushing a long lock of hair that hung loose behind her ear.

"How's everything going here? I guess my absence has lightened spirits around the house," he said, looking with an amused frown at the mess James had left in the library. It was the familiar tone Emily had grown to know so well over the years. He had an odd sense of humor, tinged with sarcasm, firstly towards himself, and then directed at all the others around him. The gold liquid burned her throat, helping her relax a bit more.

"We have missed you," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. Emily always said what she was thinking. Everyone in the house knew that and was used to it, but saying something like that in the middle of this strange night seemed a little more intimate than she had intended it to be. She bowed her head, feeling awkwardly shy as she suddenly realized she was telling the truth. She had truly missed the cooking quizzes that made her days more colourful. She couldn't wait to erase that confident, arrogant half-smile from his face. She had also missed his peculiar sense of humour, his short but always pointed remarks, his sharp, witty comments to Jamie, and most of all, his music. Some nights, sleeping without it had been impossible. She felt herself blush. Suddenly, her hands lying on her lap were the most interesting thing in the room to her hazel eyes.

"So James was that bad!" Erik half smiled to her, breaking the tension.

"Not 'that bad' …" A devilish smirk formed on her face, which was flushed from the alcohol and her embarrassment of moments ago. "Just unbearable sometimes." She grinned broadly.

Erik's absence hadn't suited James. It was as though the child had felt an irresistible compulsion to fill in the empty space his teacher had left. He became reclusive and gloomy, barely speaking to Emily if the subject didn't concern food or something Erik had said. Obviously, the impression the masked man had made on his young heart had been monumental, because every word which had come from the man's mouth was acknowledged by the boy as an undoubted truth. A dogma revealed to mankind! "You are his role model, you know…" She bit her upper lip to stop herself talking.

"You mean I'm unbearable, too?" he asked. His face was in the dark. His neutral tone didn't reveal whether he was mad at her or laughing at her. Emily stirred in her seat, feeling her cheeks turning red again.

"No, no sir, Erik… I didn't mean it that way… no, I meant you are his role model, you spend so many hours with him… so when you're away, he misses you and punishes me with his moods…"

"I …_choose_ to believe your explanation, Emily, not because it's _remotely _convincing, but because you look a little shaken. Fill my glass, please… are you feeling well?"

"I wanted to ask you the same thing," Emily remarked, regaining her composure. "For a moment I thought Jane and Gillian had tracked you down. You look terrible!"

"Thank you for your kind words!" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I'm sorry, Erik. You know me…my big mouth." She smiled at him.

"It's good to know that some things are still the same, still unchanged." He looked at the colours of the amber liquid in his glass. "It's not 'Jane and Gillian' who have haunted me. My past does a damn good job of that without their interference," he whispered, staring at the fire. He looked sad, buried deep in thought. "Have you ever felt that way?" he asked her after a long pause.

"No, thankfully, the misfortunes of my past are long dead and buried," she replied in a soft voice.

"I thought so, too. I thought I had buried the past, but I was mistaken."

She didn't expect him to continue, but when he did after a while, his tone was casual as he tried to change the subject.

"Why are you so edgy? Have we had any new notes from our dear ghosts?"

"Just one during your absence with the usual: 'You… _we_don't belong here… this land doesn't belong to you'…"

"With the money I gave for it, it surely DOES belong to me," he interrupted her.

"I have it in the drawer with the others, if you want to take a look at it. It's nothing new though. The land belongs to the dead. You're in danger because you have their treasure…"

"A treasure indeed. Nobody wanted the wretched place for a decade!" he said under his breath.

"And something about coins covered in blood," Emily continued.

"Did he write _coins_? Did he actually write 'coins'?" Erik asked in a deadly serious manner.

"I think so. I'm not sure," Emily hesitated. "I will bring it if you'd like."

"No. Don't bother! I'm done with people's stupidity. This place belongs to me, and if anyone, mortal or immortal, cares to claim it, he's damn welcome to try!" he exclaimed, truly irritated now. His tone had a dangerous, threatening edge she hadn't heard before.

"Are you hungry?" Emily asked after a while. She couldn't think of another way to change the subject.

"No, I am not!" His reply was quick and harsh, and she remained still at her spot on the sofa, deliberately looking at everything in the room except him till he cooled down a bit. She knew his short temper too well. She was also familiar with the signs which showed it was subsiding. His heavy sigh was one of them.

"Is your friend all right?" Emily asked. For a minute, he looked at her, not knowing what she was talking about.

"Madame Giry? Yes, she's fine. She has some trouble with her legs, but unfortunately, it is to be expected after so many years of professional dancing. Nothing fatal, though."

"Thank God everything turned out fine!" Emily said with a smile.

"Thank God indeed!" he said, mocking her, but she couldn't tell why.

"Emily, have you ever done something, trying to help yourself and others, and finally realized that the harm you have caused is greater than if you'd done nothing at all? All your efforts in vain, all done for nothing? And the people you …" – he paused to find the right words - "…you care for were the ones hurt the most?"

He looked like a man with a burden weighing so heavily on his chest that it wouldn't let him breathe.  
He sounded so sad. Emily wished she could see the expression on the unmasked part of his face, but he remained in the shadows as he went on. "There's been a bitter feeling, a bitter taste in my mouth for so many days. I couldn't come straight back…I wandered for two weeks before I realized I have no other place to go to…no other way…and that bitterness… I can still taste it." He was talking more to himself.

"It's guilt," Emily whispered, though loudly enough for him to hear her. "Guilt and remorse usually taste like that. Regret, too. Sometimes acting is more risky than doing nothing at all." Her face was clouded now. "But sometimes one can't help but do otherwise. It seems there's no alternative at the time."

Another sip of her drink helped her find the courage she lacked.

"When I was young I was in love with a boy from my village, Robert. He was my childhood friend and companion. Like Jamie and Mary…" Emily dared a quick look at him, wondering if he cared to hear.

He had withdrawn from the shadows. She felt his stare on her, steady and warm, encouraging her to go on.

"We were poor, very poor. Robert went to Plymouth to find a job on a ship. He was going to work for some years, and then come back to marry me." Her voice was sad.  
"But my family was so poor, and my mother told me Robert would never come back for me. I'm not pretty, you know, 'too plain,' she always said."

For a second, she thought Erik wanted to say something, but no word came out of his mouth. Emily kept talking with the boldness the malt gave her.

"Mr. Nicholson seemed the perfect solution to my problem. He offered to pay all my late father's debts. I would have a comfortable life with him. He had a steady income. When I didn't have any news from Robert for a year, I became Mrs. Nicholson."  
Emily looked at him to see the impact her words had had, but couldn't read his blank expression. She had always felt ashamed of herself for marrying for money and convenience.

"I lived two years with Mr. Nicholson as his wife before he died." She winced at saying her husband's name. It was so strange! Even after marrying him, he was "Mr. Nicholson" to her, while the masked man before her had so easily become just "Erik." "I really tried to love him, even as a friend… but I couldn't. You see, he was so much older than me…"

It was Erik's turn to wince. He had turned pale. A physical blow couldn't have caused such a pained expression. A look of revulsion was all over his face.

"I had been married for five months when Robert came back for me. It took all my self-control not to leave with him." Emily heard her voice break.

"Why didn't you?" Erik's tone was soft, not condemning at all, encouraging her to carry on. And she wanted so desperately to get it off her chest.

"My family, I guess. My father and my older brother were dead. My mother was struggling with my younger brother… I was their only help. And Mr. Nicholson…he was a good man. I didn't want to make him feel ridiculous. He was kind to me."

"But he forced you to marry him using his money! He should have known better!"

"But I married him. I didn't have faith in Robert, in myself… I was to blame for breaking Robert's heart, for ruining my life."

"Why didn't you go to him after your husband died?"

"It would have been the last thing the man needed! Mr. Nicholson had more debts than my father. After the house was sold, there was nothing left. I was poorer than before I got married."

"That's absurd! The bastard didn't leave you anything? Didn't tell anything?"

It was the first time his angry tone had ever made her smile. It felt so right to have someone like Erik on her side. His passionate anger towards her late husband stirred a warm feeling inside her.

"I guess that's what greedy people get in life. I deserved it, I think," Emily said with a sad smile on her face.

"No, you didn't 'deserve' that, as you didn't deserve that old man as a husband!  
You were young! It's so easy to make mistakes when you're young." His voice was soft again.

"Anyway, my mother was dead by that time, so she didn't witness any of these things. Thank God for that! If she had, she would have waked Mr. Nicholson from the dead to kill him herself. She loved me, you know, but she wanted to see me safe and secure. She always said the boys would find their way in life, but for a girl, the future is dark without a guardian. She was not right, but not completely wrong, either. I had some difficulty in adjusting to my new life as a maid at Claridge mansion, but when I was transferred to the kitchen, things got better. My plain features and my big mouth made me quite unattractive, and that helped a lot."

Erik growled at her insinuation. He seemed aware of the misfortunes young maids endured from other servants or even their employers.

"I hope you feel comfortable working here." His tone was shy. "I want you to feel comfortable," he said as he retreated to the shadowed corner of his armchair.

This awkward command brought a shy smile to the blonde woman's face.

"I've always believed that everything happens for a reason. Red Door Cottage is a home to me. The first in a long, long time." Emily grinned at him. "Are you hungry?" she asked softly.

"I'm starving." He sounded surprised at himself.

"I'll make you some tea. Jamie brought your order from Mr. Hamilton's three days ago, the Russian poison you're drinking included. I'll bring you some with some ginger cookies…" she teased him.

"I'm not_ that _hungry, thank you!" he replied with a grimace of disgust.

"I do have some lemon pie, if you prefer, till I heat the stew," Emily suggested.

"Hmm," he growled. Sometimes his manners reminded her of Jamie.

"Lemon pie, it is, then."


	10. Mauve

Thank you, all, for reading and reviewing this story!

My endless gratitude to Desiree and TOWDNWTBN for their patience!

* * *

**CHAPTER 10 - Mauve**

Time always seemed to measure itself differently for Erik than it did for ordinary people. It wasn't the fact that he needed fewer hours of sleep, or that he worked equally well during the night and the day that made time look different.  
It was his past and all the _unusual _events that had filled his life since his childhood; all the places he had visited; all the people he had met, and most of all, all the extraordinary predicaments he had faced that made time look so full, as though he had lived for a hundred years. While other peoples' lives were marked by events like marriage and the birth of children, his life from his early days had been a battle between life and death, survival and violence, beauty and utter ugliness, soaring art and the decay of human nature.

He had witnessed the most wicked, heinous acts humans can perform, and it had proven so easy to lose perspective, to behave according to_ those _standards in order to survive, to fit in, to even excel in their twisted world. How many nights had he awakened, his body covered in sweat, tormented by nightmares? How many nights had he lain awake thinking what Christine would think of him if she knew what they had made him do, what he had done?  
But the days he had allowed other people to dictate his acts or rule his life were long gone.  
For Erik, control over his life, his feelings, and other people had gradually become the most important asset in life. If someone had offered him the chance to get rid of his monstrosity of a face but lose control over himself, an ability he had gained over the years - living his life by his own limits - he would have refused without a second thought. He knew from experience that without a face, he could survive, but without control over his life, he'd be like an infant thrown into the river.

This painfully-gained control, this absolute belief he could reign over his feelings was once more at risk when he came back from France, threatening to ruin the only semblance of normal life he had ever had. Knowing that Christine was alone, within his reach again, was like offering opium to a former addict. He spent endless days at the east wing of the Twin House, but nothing was the same as before. How could he go back to his former life as though nothing had happened, especially when a part of him wanted to go back to her, even if it meant just watching her from a distance? Could he go back to the state of the pathetic lunatic who names his obsession love, destroying everything he touches?

He wasn't the same man as before. At some point, Erik had realized and accepted that human passions were not meant for him. He felt them differently from normal people. Feelings consumed him, leaving him spent. And Christine had always managed to evoke a variety of different, both warm and dark, feelings inside him, making him lose his wits, unleashing the hell of emotions he so carefully concealed. How she did that was beyond his comprehension, but Erik was wiser now than to play with fire again!

Adjusting to his former way of living at the Twin Houses wasn't as easy as Erik thought it would be. In a strange way, he felt he didn't fit anymore. Every room was too small, every activity too boring, every bit of work too hard or a waste of his time. At first, both Emily and James let him be, trying to give him space, pretending they didn't notice anything different in his not leaving his room, staying for days in a row at the Twin House, neglecting James' lessons, not playing music at all while he was locked in the music room for endless hours.

After a few weeks, though, a twist in their behavior was evident even to him, even though he was so disconnected from everything around him. Whenever he was in the library, James would come and almost demand a lesson with a boldness he had never shown before. When Emily knocked at the door of his bedroom in the morning or even late at noon for breakfast or lunch, she wouldn't leave after the first harsh words or the shouts to leave him alone. Instead, she kept knocking or shouting that she didn't cook just to throw food away. Her bravery usually lasted till she heard the key turn in the lock. Erik generally opened the door just in time to catch sight of her lithe form running towards the kitchen. If he didn't pick up the tray she had left on the floor, new knocks would follow after a while. While all this was transpiring, minor breakages occurred more frequently than usual in the house. Trivial things which only Erik could repair: the irrigation pump, the heavy shelves in the library, the chimney, the roof...something always needed to be fixed, and no one else was able to do it.

After his irritation, anger, and ill temper had passed, Erik came to realize that misery and despair had been like a thick, dark fog around him, not allowing him to see any way through, drowning him in a deep pit of loneliness. Emily's and James' interference was like a guiding light showing a way out. They didn't let him wallow in his misery, they weren't discouraged by his temper, they dared to disobey his orders, and most of all, they seemed to care.

II II II

During this strange period, the only hours Erik could describe as pleasurable were those he spent tutoring James. The boy still felt reluctant to share the fact that he was left-handed with Emily or even Mary, so any writing or drawing on his part was done either in his room or behind the locked doors of the library. Erik had immediately noticed that this habit made Emily furious, since she did not know the true reason behind it. It caught his attention that these were the hours when she found more excuses to interrupt them, usually bringing sweets, pies, and tea, to James' delight. Her perceptive, smart eyes eagerly tried to catch any sign of what they were supposed to be hiding, and Erik was certain she blamed him for their decision to exclude her. James, on the other hand, seemed to sincerely enjoy her annoyance and irritation, and he locked and unlocked the door in the noisiest way possible.

James was developing a peculiar, almost morbid, sense of humor. One of his usual forms of homework was to copy an article from the French newspaper and write an essay in English about it. During these assignments, he always chose to copy the strangest articles or book excerpts in an effort to shock Erik, either with the texts or with the opinions he expressed about them. In summary after summary, Erik would read the gruesome anatomical details of a young lady's murder in Paris by no other, as was finally proved, than her own fiancé, a respected member of the clergy, along with the boy's detailed suggestions regarding the crime investigation.

For Erik, the most entertaining of all were James' critiques and reviews about heroes of well-known novels.

In James' opinion, Hamlet was the worst play Shakespeare had ever written. The boy couldn't comprehend the ghost's behavior. If he was so mighty and scary, the ghost of Hamlet's father should have taken revenge for his death himself and not have driven his son to death and his country to distraction. On the other hand, Ophelia definitely was the silliest girl on earth for committing suicide for Hamlet's love. Finally, Hamlet was absolutely unworthy of her since he should have found a way to warn her and explain his dilemmas. For Erik, it wasn't only amusing, but also a relief to witness how James, innocent and still unharmed by the pain of love, saw the world so simple and clear. According to the boy, Penelope must have looked like a cow for Odysseus to have wandered 20 years till he found his way back home. Erik always tried very hard to read the essays with an expressionless face, although it was hardly an easy task.

These essays had also become a form of communication between them. The child, shy and proud as he was, used them to request things without actually asking for them, so that he did not risk being rejected or seeming out of line. The latest example had been when essays about horses and their use in a household had started to appear on a weekly basis. When no reaction or realization seemed to occur on Erik's side, the essays became more frequent and more obvious.  
The breeds of horses most useful for farmers were compared with those more suited for travelers; the cost of keeping a horse in a household was thoroughly analyzed, both for households breeding animals and for those which didn't.  
When that didn't manage to have any effect, another kind of essay appeared. Horses' intelligence compared with that of other animals' - Blue might have been greatly insulted by that particular essay - their unique beauty, and other equally exceptional traits were presented, along with stories of famous horses - Bucephalus and Alexander the Great were the highlight of them.

Someone needed to be a complete idiot not to understand the child's wish for a horse, but Erik was curious as to how far the boy would go in asking without actually _asking_. When James started to draw horses with Erik's watercolors – the exquisite-quality watercolors from Florence - without much success, as Emily more than once mistook the horse for a portrait of Blue - Erik knew he had to act. Firstly, a letter to his accountant in London, and secondly, a talk with Emily, and finally, a talk with James.

"James, I have to say I'm very impressed by your improvement. I think in a month's time, you'll be ready for your first French book assignment, and then we will put geography into the schedule. As Emily has told me, you're doing your chores with responsibility, competence, and devotion."

The boy looked puzzled, not knowing if a "but" might follow. Erik realized he was talking like a schoolmaster.

"You see, James, I have asked you to come because I want your advice." He tried a different approach. James' eyes went wide with surprise, but didn't say anything. "Lately, I don't know why –" Erik tried very hard to conceal the smirk on his face, "but I've had an idea. I'm thinking of buying a horse." He leaned back in his chair, satisfied by the child's reaction.

James had almost jumped from his chair, but he quickly restrained himself, bit his lower lip, and didn't say a word. Erik lifted an eyebrow and continued, pretending nothing had happened. "I do know a horse needs a lot of work and care. I was wondering whether you could manage handling this extra work."

"Yes, sir," was all that came from James' mouth.

"I have to be certain that you want this extra burden. With your work in the house and your lessons, you will hardly have time for anything else." Erik knew he was torturing the boy, but he wanted some things to be clear from the beginning. Furthermore, James' flushed face, matching his reddish hair, so red it even hid his freckles, was a rewarding sight after all the boring horse essays Erik had had to endure.

"I really don't mind, sir. The work at the Twin House is nearly over. I'm sure I can manage, and with the horse, I will be saving time when I go to the village or the Twin cottage." Obviously, the boy had thought about it a lot.

"The horse will be your responsibility exclusively," Erik stated. The boy nodded. "Do we have an agreement?"

"Yes, sir," the boy replied, nodding at the same time. He seemed ready to explode. Erik didn't have the heart to torture him anymore.

"I have made the arrangements. In a couple of weeks, you will have to find a name for him."

"I will find the name?" James repeated.

"As long as it's not something ridiculous like Hercules, you will. You may be excused."  
James almost ran to the door when a cold voice stopped him. "And never use my Italian watercolors again. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," James replied earnestly, and closed the door behind him.

His shouts about having a horse could be heard from the kitchen, where Emily tried to appear surprised, to the library, and probably all the way to the village. Erik smiled to himself as the period with the most boring essays in the history of tutoring ended successfully.

II II II

"Adonis is definitely NOT a proper name for a horse!" Erik exclaimed.

He almost lost his balance as he climbed onto the highest rung of the ladder. He was trying to remove the broken upper windowpane of the Twin House's parlor, but the boy's suggestions were quite distracting. The tree branch had broken the window after the storm the day before. Erik knew he should cut the branch, but he kept postponing the task. Changing the glass seemed easier at the moment.

"You have already rejected Othello, Hugo, and Theodoric!" James complained rather loudly, collecting the fallen shards of glass from the wooden floor.

"I'm not deaf, James! And watch your hands. You will cut yourself."

The silence that followed was highly welcome. Erik looked at the boy out of the corner of his eye. With his work completed and his shoulders slumped, James started carving a piece of wood. While his attempts at drawing were rather discouraging, he had a great sense of color and an exceptional talent for carving. From his first weeks at the Red Door Cottage, small animal forms carved in different types of wood had made their way into every room. Erik didn't know the reason, but kept them all in a drawer in his bedroom.  
Adjusting the glass into position, he looked again at the boy. James had grown a lot over the last year, even though he still complained about his height. He was a nice-looking child. His reddish hair hung loosely around his face. He sat on the floor while Blue was peacefully sleeping on the sofa. This strange irony seemed extremely natural in Erik's eyes. As long as he had known him, Blue had always detested being on the floor. James looked extremely concentrated on his work, though his frowning saffron eyebrows betrayed him. Erik was not fooled. A minute later, the boy looked up at him with bright eyes.

"What about Charlemagne?" he asked expectantly.

"Charlemagne? This is not a king, James! It's just a horse!" Erik answered tiredly, securing the new glass in place.

"You said I would pick the name," James grumbled between his teeth.

"Has it ever occurred to you that I will have to use the horse's name, too? It'd be absolutely ridiculous to call him Adonis or Charlemagne."

The stallion Erik had picked had a placid nature and a deep red-brown color. From the moment he had seen him, he had stolen his heart. Still, if it had been in his hands, he would just have named the horse "horse." He could have sworn he had heard every name suitable for a man or the hero of a novel, but they were all totally unsuitable for the poor animal.

"But still I get to name the horse. You've promised. A gentleman's word is as good as a promise, you have said so," the boy reminded him.

Had he ever said that? And who said he was a gentleman? "Of course you will name the horse. Pick a name - just nothing too extravagant, like…" he avoided completing his sentence. He didn't want to give the child more ammunition in his absurd quest for a name.

"Alexander, then?"

"Iskander," Erik whispered, more to himself.

"What's that? What does it mean?"

"That is what Alexander the Great is called in Persia," Erik replied reluctantly.

"Do you speak Persian?" James asked with wide eyes. For a moment, all horses' names were forgotten.

"I did, a long time ago," Erik replied softly, almost apologetically. His face had turned more pale than usual. Persia was not his favorite conversation topic, and he even avoided thinking of it if he could help it.

"Have you been in Persia?" the boy asked, fascinated, unaware of the man's discomfort.

"No, I haven't," Erik replied hastily.

He watched James' enthusiasm fade. He felt ashamed of himself. It was the first time he had lied to James. In the past, whenever he hadn't felt like answering the boy's questions - and there were a lot of them! - he just avoided them or told him it was not his business to ask. Somehow, this time, he felt the need to lie. He wanted to be the man James knew him to be. He wanted to forget all that happened there. If he was lucky, he'd forget everything about his past.

II II II

The woman opened the gates of what she hoped to be the "Red Door Cottage." That man's offer of a ride, which she had refused, sounded like a good idea to her now.  
She walked down the lane towards the house, her hand absentmindedly tracing the deep green hedges. She stopped to catch her breath, looking at the breathtaking view of the lake before her, and the blood-red door of the cottage appeared through the tall trees. She felt her heart beating hard against her chest as her pace quickened. Checking her hair and brushing her dress, she knocked on the heavy door. The blonde woman who opened the door just after her first knock looked at her, smiling broadly. Odd; she hadn't expected to find a woman in his house. Who was she? She blinked, trying to understand what the woman had said.

"Can I help you?" Emily repeated slowly, still smiling at the confused woman in front of her.

"Is this the Red Door Cottage? I'm looking for Monsieur Erik Rochelle."

"He is not here at the moment. Will you wait for him inside?" Emily asked, looking curiously at the woman with the thick French accent.

"Yes, thank you," the woman replied, walking into the hall.

"I can let him know you are here," Emily suggested, expecting James to appear for his haircut. "Who shall I say is asking for him?"

The woman stared at the housekeeper a moment before she answered. "I'm Madame Giry."

II II II

"What about Verdi?" James asked, remembering his favorite subject again.

"That's sacrilege, boy!" Erik exclaimed. "That's it! I know what you're doing! You have purposely found the most horrible names just to make me agree with the name you really want - whatever it is - as long as it is…remotely decent!"

Erik looked at James, who was still sitting on the floor with a serious look on his face. He could have sworn he had been smiling behind his back. The boy looked very satisfied with himself. That alone was suspicious enough.

"Come on, tell me. What's the real name?"

"I don't know what you mean by that." James glared at him from under his eyelashes. "I have to get going. Emily promised to finally cut my hair today," he said, hastily cleaning the wood shavings he had dropped on the polished floor during his whittling.  
"She had promised even before her trip to Wales a month ago!"

"It seems you are good at collecting promises lately. Why do you want to cut your hair? It's fashionably long." He looked at the boy's hair, which came just below his shoulder.

"Your hair is shorter than mine. I want my hair short, too," the boy stated decidedly.

Erik turned his back to the boy. His hand unconsciously went to his mask and hair. Feeling everything in place, he exhaled and grabbed the ladder firmly.

"I'm certainly not qualified to be a fashion model, James. It's your hair, though. Do whatever you want with it," he said in a serious tone, leaving the room with the ladder in his hands.

"Will you need the horse?" the boy shouted.

"I'm not deaf, James!" An angry shout was heard from the hall. "You may take the nameless horse. I have no use for him today." This came as a disembodied whisper in James' ear, since the man wasn't even in the room anymore. The boy smiled to himself. Even if he had become used to these tricks years ago, they were still fun.

II II II

"Would you like a cup of tea? Maybe something to eat?" Emily asked the woman sitting on the sofa. She looked exhausted, and she was trying to put some loose strands of hair back into her tight bun. Her expression was gloomy, despite her elegant features.

"I'd love some tea, thank you," she replied softly. She sounded anxious and disappointed. Emily just hoped Erik would be home soon.

II II II

Erik was walking slowly towards the Red Door Cottage when he saw James approaching him at a gallop. He smiled to himself. If the boy could have gone to his room on horseback, he most certainly would have done so.

"That must have been the fastest haircut of all times!" he said, looking at the boy.

"I didn't have the time. There's a visitor for you… a woman is looking for you, sir," James said breathlessly, dismounting. Obviously, he was extremely excited about the visitor. It was surely a novelty for the Red Door Cottage. "Madame Giry is looking for you, sir. Will you need the horse?"

"Minnette? What is she doing here?" Erik asked more to himself. Had Christine gone back to her husband?

"Is she from France, sir?" the boy asked, enthusiasm evident in his voice.

"Yes, she's from France. I won't need the horse. Go fetch my jacket. I forgot it at the Twin House," Erik replied, thinking of the various possibilities. Was something wrong with Christine, and Minnette had come for help? Unconsciously, his walking became faster.

"She's so beautiful!" the boy said, mounting the horse. The masked man looked round at him curiously. Minnette had surely made an unexpected impression. He shouldn't have been surprised, he decided. After all, she was a good-looking woman and always had kept her graceful figure.

"Her eyes have a strange color." James continued his mumbling. "They are not exactly blue. They have red inside, but not lavender, not purple…" Erik stopped in his tracks, turning his face slowly to the boy, who was still talking. "There is a color like the one among the Italian watercolors. I think it's called mauve…"

"It is violet," Erik replied in a serious tone. "She has violet eyes," he said through gritted teeth.

"Are you all right, sir? Is anything wrong?" James asked worriedly, seeing Erik's flushed face. The man stood still, looking at the Red Door Cottage, his brow furrowed and his haunted golden gaze locked on the house. After a minute of uncanny silence, he lowered his head and unconsciously traced the part of his mask that covered his temple with his long, slender fingers. Erik looked ahead with a pained expression. With a deep, resigned voice, he said clearly to himself, "It is she, then. The Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny is at the Red Door Cottage."


	11. A totally unexpected visit

I want to thank you all for reading and reviewing this story!

I hope you are fine, enjoying spring!

I'm afraid I have to go back to updating this story once a week.

Many, boring-to-mention reasons force me to do that…

I haven't decided yet which day of the week is the most convenient… Monday? Thursday? Too many questions for an indecisive person… ;-)

Desiree and TOWDNWTBN, thank you! You are the best!

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**Chapter 11 -A totally unexpected visit**

Emily watched as the young woman inspected the large room with a quizzical look on her face. She looked surprised. Emily couldn't guess the reason for such a feeling. What had she expected? A barn? After all, Erik was a wealthy man with exquisite taste. From time to time, the Frenchwoman stopped and let her fingers touch a book, a piece of parchment, a pen on the desk.

"Erik will be home soon," Emily said, trying to ease the woman's obvious anxiety.

"You address your employer by his first name?" Christine asked suspiciously.

Emily looked at the snobbish woman before her, and her smile faded. Her dress was simple, but the deep blue laced fabric had obviously been very expensive. An awkward choice for a traveling outfit. She was either rich or wanted to make a good impression.  
Undeniably, she was beautiful, but at the moment, her lips were nothing but a thin line, hardly complimentary for her pretty face. Emily felt extremely uncomfortable under her examining stare.

"Erik _himself_ asked me to call him by his first name. He said my accented _'Monsieur Rochelle' _was painful to hear," Emily explained defensively.

"Yes, that really sounds like Erik." Christine tried to smile, but only a grimace appeared on her face. Emily saw the doubt in her eyes. "Excuse me, but I'm so tired from the trip and the walk all the way from the village," Christine said, sitting down on the sofa.  
"So Erik won't be late?"

"I don't think so. James's going to find him, but even if he doesn't, he is going to be home soon for the lesson," Emily replied.

"Does he give _you _music lessons?" Christine asked nervously.

It was Emily's turn to look puzzled. The young woman seemed paler than before.

"No. He is teaching James English and French." She could swear Christine sighed after hearing her answer.

"I will be in the kitchen, if you need me," Emily said, exiting the room. Her eagerness for conversation with the newcomer had completely vanished.

II II II

"Where is she?" The kitchen door opened with a thud, and Erik appeared at the doorframe.

"In the library," Emily replied, turning to face him.

"Is she all right?" he asked with concern, his breath still ragged.

"I suppose she is. She looked fine to me." Emily didn't know how to answer such a question about a woman she had never seen before. She took a good look at him, shocked by the state he was in. He seemed confused and disoriented. A thin sheen of sweat covered the exposed part of his face. He looked as if he had run all the way home. His face was flushed. His shirt was half open, revealing his strong neck and part of his muscular chest. This unkempt look did make him look younger, complementing his tall, slender body, but still Emily felt forced to avert her eyes, staring pointlessly at the pot on the stove. This masculine image from a man so composed and always in control, as Erik had always been, was quite awkward. Furthermore, she knew that a self-conscious man such as Erik could not possibly appreciate her prying stares. Despite his obvious hurry to get home, he let himself fall unceremoniously onto a kitchen chair. With his palms flat open on the kitchen table, he kept looking at the blazing fire burning in the stone fireplace, withdrawn into his own thoughts. As he locked his eyes onto the flames, one hand absentmindedly caressed the rough, unpolished surface of the wooden kitchen table, while the other took hold of a small brass key hanging from his neck by a leather string.

"It doesn't matter," he said to himself, clearly oblivious to her presence.  
"It's over now. I know it is," he continued in a more determined tone.

Emily didn't even think about asking what Erik meant. She was fully aware he would feel extremely uncomfortable if he knew she had even heard that much. After a while, she set a cup of the strongly-flavored Russian tea he preferred in front of him.  
She had never seen him in this state before. Could the snobbish woman in the library have been the cause of his strange behavior when he returned from France a few months before? All her initial joy about the visitor had turned into disappointment mixed with concern.

Drinking his tea in two large sips, Erik leapt to his feet and approached the fireplace. At this point, he seemed in control again.

"Do you want me to fetch you a jacket?" Emily hesitantly asked.

"Leave it!" he growled, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. His face was taut with a desperate anger. "Who the hell cares how I look?" he exclaimed as a distorted half-smile appeared on his face, and he left the room with two long strides.

II II II

More than half an hour later, Emily let her curiosity get the best of her. She left James in the kitchen and approached the library with the most silent steps she could manage. Risking a quick look through the half-open door, she saw the young woman resting her head on her folded arm atop the sofa's arm, sleeping. Erik was nowhere near. Boldly, Emily took a step into the room and another quick look around. At the furthest wall opposite to the sofa, at the end of the room, she saw his slender silhouette in the dark. He was leaning on the wall with his arms folded over his chest, his eyes blazing, locked on Christine's sleeping frame. His tall frame looked strong and intimidating, and she felt she was intruding on a very private moment.

"She's asleep," he informed her, as if she weren't able to see for herself.

"She said she was tired from the trip. She has left a letter for you on the desk. We had better take her to a room upstairs," Emily suggested.

"No! Let her rest here," Erik commanded with a hoarse, rough voice.

"Erik, we can't! She will freeze all night on this sofa." Emily turned to him again, finding him in the same position.

"Then light the fire," he said impatiently.

"The room is large. She will catch her death in here!" Emily heard him sigh, approaching the sofa. He knew she was right. For a minute, his broad shoulders hid the woman's curled figure from Emily's sight. Erik seemed to just stand there, looking at her sleeping form, but after a while, she saw him bend and carefully lift Christine's body into his arms; hesitant at first, but always gentle.  
Christine, only for a second, half opened her eyes just to take a glimpse of the man who was carrying her, and stirred slightly in his arms to find a more comfortable position.  
She looked so small in his arms. Erik bowed his head and looked at her violet eyes.  
A moan escaped his mouth.

"Are you all right?" Emily asked with genuine concern.

"I'm fine. My back hurts a bit. That's all," he replied in a harsh tone that made her regret her question.

Emily looked at him doubtingly. He had never complained about his back before, nor did he seem to have trouble now. He carried the woman, ascending the stairs as if carrying a leaf. But what had impressed Emily the most was that he never even considered the chance of just waking Christine and leading her to her bedroom.

II II II

Erik opened Minnette's letter, almost tearing it apart with fury. His shock at Christine's arrival had now been replaced by a large dose of justified anger. How could Minnette let her come to his house? How could she betray him in such a manner? Just the thought of Christine, sleeping in the room next to his, provoked a new groan. The Red Door Cottage would never be the same once she had left. How could Minnette do this to him? That ungrateful woman! Her uncertain handwriting filled his eyes. He had to read the letter again and again to fully understand its meaning.

"Dear Erik,  
A friend once suggested that in living my life, I should keep things simple. At least, as simple as possible… I've taken your advice.  
I'm leaving France. My daughter needs me, and I shouldn't darken her happiness anymore. Traveling to America frightens me more than anything, but I have to get through it now while my legs still hold me.

Life is too short, my friend. We have to give a chance to every possibility of happiness we have.  
Christine, underneath her fragile appearance, is a strong woman. At least she has been forced to become stronger over the last few years. If I can take a risk in life, surely you can, too.  
Good luck and take care of yourself.

Minnette

P.S. Christine's son died on the 25th of September. This is always a mournful day for her."

He crumpled the letter in his hand before throwing it at the furthest corner of the room in rage. How dare she? This was so out of character for Minnette. How dare she jeopardize everything he had accomplished, every fragment of peace of mind he had managed to gain over the years? How could she risk Christine's safety? Didn't she remember what had happened the last time they were together? Only bitterness and venom!  
And furthermore, the foolish woman dared to challenge him! _"If I can take a risk in life, surely you can, too." _He slammed his palm hard onto his desk, causing a little elephant form that James had sculpted in clay to fall and break into pieces. He looked at the pieces, remembering how proud James had been of his work. He collapsed onto his chair, putting his head in his hands, tracing the engorged vein in his left temple. A headache was developing rapidly.

II II II

By the following morning, Emily was already certain there was a strange relationship between the master of the house and the young lady who had unexpectedly visited him. Erik, for the first time, looked angry and terrified at the same time. Emily was familiar with many shades of his anger, but that tension, that fear he was trying to hide, was something she couldn't explain. He wasn't frightened of the woman; that was certain. Just the way he had cradled her against his chest, the gentle way he had placed her upon the bed, like a fragile, porcelain doll, or his soft, soothing voice as he patiently comforted her, when Christine had opened her eyes, confused and worried by the unknown surroundings in her room, were obvious evidence that he cared for her deeply. Emily was deeply surprised by the gentleness and care a man such as Erik had so freely shown. Still, after seeing that she was safe and comfortable, he had locked himself in the library, pacing like a caged animal. After a while, he had left the cottage, only to be back just before dawn to give breakfast instructions for the _Vicomtesse_. Despite last evening's strange behavior, the next morning, Erik had fully regained his composure and was in absolute control. His instructions were made in a calm, serious tone with a hint of indifference. Emily was hardly fooled by his acting. She hadn't seen him so tense and rigid since he had returned from his brief trip to France.

On the other hand, Christine was a true enigma. Emily sometimes saw in her a stiff, snobbish woman, while at other times she saw nothing more than a vulnerable, desperate creature. When Erik had left them alone in the bedroom and Emily had helped her change her clothes, Christine had thanked her with unshed tears sparkling in her eyes. Emily couldn't figure out what was going on between them, but she would definitely find out.

Christine entered the kitchen hesitantly, searching all the corners of the large room with her eyes. Wiping her hands with a cotton towel, Emily bowed her head and smiled at her politely.

"You didn't have to come down, Madame. I'll bring your breakfast to your room shortly."

"Please call me Christine. I'd just like a cup of tea. Nothing more," the woman said, looking around but seeing no one in the room except Emily and herself.  
"May I sit here for awhile?" she asked, pointing to the chair by the table.

"There's no need, Madame. I'll bring your tea upstairs," Emily replied in a respectful tone. She wanted to keep her guard up with this woman.

"What if_ I _want to have my breakfast here? Is it not allowed? Will I be in your way?" Christine asked with concern. She looked shy.

"On the contrary! You can sit there if you like, Madame," Emily said, pointing at another chair closer to the fireplace. "Erik says this is the most beautiful room in the house. He usually eats with us in the evenings." Emily bit her lip to stop her mouth from saying more.

"Erik is right," Christine stated softly, looking through the window at the small, colorful garden and the lake's green waters. No sign of the previous day's snobbish woman was evident. "Why don't you call me Christine?" she asked with a melodious voice.

"It is not proper, Madame," Emily replied in her formal tone.

"Not proper? Why?" Christine asked with a questioning look on her face.

"Jamie told me you are a vicomtesse," Emily explained, inwardly wondering if she truly was.

"I have been a vicomtesse for a little while. That doesn't make me a vicomtesse forever. For most of my life, I was a dancer at the Opera," Christine revealed with a genuine smile on her face. Emily was surprised by the beauty of that smile. "Is it proper to call an opera dancer by her first name?" Christine asked with a little tease in her voice.

Emily realized she was trying to make amends for last afternoon's behavior, so she set a cup of tea on the table along with a plate of her favorite ginger cookies.

Christine took a cookie in hand, and after a bite, she closed her eyes to savor the taste.

"Mmmm! That cookie tastes truly great! And that butter! I didn't realize how hungry I am!" she said, taking a small sip of her tea. "That's delicious!" she exclaimed.

"Erik told me you preferred the light honey instead of the strongly-flavored one.  
He was very particular with his instructions," Emily noted.

Christine nodded, and turned her face to the window again. Emily considered that to be the end of the discussion, and turned to her kettle.

As the door slowly opened, Blue made a confident appearance in the kitchen for his usual treat, wagging his long tail.

"You are truly a beggar!" Emily laughed at him, preparing something for the dog. After a brief check, Blue slowly approached Christine's chair, constantly sniffing the air. Christine tapped her hand on her lap to beckon the dog, smiling at his funny face with one blue and one brown eye. Contrary to his usual behavior, Blue emphatically declined her offer, leaving the room immediately. Emily was surprised by his awkward behavior and the genuine hurt on Christine's face.

II II II

Christine opened the library's door with apprehension, after a shy knock and a harsh reply from within. Erik had his back turned and was looking at the lake. She took a deep breath and stole another look at the room brushed in daylight.

From what she had managed to see so far, the Red Door Cottage had few rooms, but they were huge rooms. In every other cottage she had seen, this 'library' would have been divided into two still-large rooms serving as parlor and drawing room. The large windows in this library illuminated a brocade sofa and two leather armchairs beside the extraordinary stone fireplace, which was almost as tall as a man's height. On the opposite side of the room, there was a large mahogany desk. The floor was covered with richly-colored carpets, most of them in shades of burgundy, the only part of the decoration that provided some color, as all the furniture was black and the walls were covered with heavy, thick shelves with books, forming a heavily-colored mosaic. Everything in that room seemed to be on a larger scale than usual, but the master of the house appeared to fit just right. Christine released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. This would be the first time she would talk to him in this house, and all she could see was his back. This morning's formal, impeccable manner of dress was so different from the previous night's half-open poet's shirt. She could still feel his cold hands on her face and body when he carried her to her bedroom last night.

"What an unexpected honor! A vicomtesse in my humble house!" Erik's sarcastic tone filled the room, ending her trail of thoughts. His voice was like a cold bucket of water on her spine.

"I'm not a vicomtesse anymore. I think you are fully aware of that!" Christine's stern tone forced him to turn and look at her. He sat lazily on the windowsill, stretching his long legs, looking at her with feigned indifference.

"Might I be informed as to the purpose of your visit, then?" he asked, raising his visible brow. He stroked Blue's head, as the dog, seeing her in the room, had left the chair he had been lying on and approached his master, seeking protection. Christine remembered the scene in the kitchen earlier that very morning. She couldn't even charm a dog. What were her chances with the residents of this house?

"Haven't you read the letter? Minnette is gone! I have no place to go…" Her voice faded.

"And you chose my home?" Erik exclaimed with blazing eyes. "The house of the man who 'destroyed your life'?" His voice broke. He averted his eyes, and looked at the restless dog standing by his feet. He looked as if he were ashamed of himself.

"Those were words of anger and fury," Christine started. She wanted to explain, but Erik's smile, grim and sarcastic, stopped her. She felt like getting angry at his nonchalant behavior. She didn't know what she expected, but certainly not this infuriating manner! "If I could find a decent job in France, I surely wouldn't be here!" Christine retorted defiantly.

"You ought to be with your husband, Madame!" Erik stated icily, his penetrating golden gaze locked with hers. A smirk formed on his face. He looked pleased with himself. Three years ago, those words would never have escaped his mouth. He would rather have died than pronounce them. This time he seemed to mean every single one of them.

"I have told you. We are not together anymore!" Christine replied, annoyed by the satisfaction visible on his face. He was a cruel, infuriating man! How could she have forgotten that?

"Does he know that?" His taunting tone annoyed her even more.

"Don't be ridiculous!" she exclaimed.

"I am ridiculous? Your decisions are ridiculous, Madame! Three months ago, you told me you wished you had never met me, and now you are in my house. You are obviously hiding from your husband. You refuse to tell me the true reason for that behavior…"

"I've never told you I wished I had never met you –" she interrupted.

"Don't play with me, Madame! And most importantly, don't play with my memory!" he said gravely. "If you want to stay in my house, at least you must tell me the reason for such an…uncharacteristic choice!" His tone was demanding, but she was determined not to let him intimidate her.

"I don't want just to stay here. I want to work. I don't want any favors. I will do any work you tell me to do."

For a second, he looked at her, stunned. She expected he would be furious, but, on the contrary, he looked highly amused at her defiant tone and her declaration of independence.

"You mean you will do any work _Emily _will assign you." He emphasized this phrase just to let her know there would be no favors from his part for as long as she would stay. She got the message. He didn't want anything to do with her.

"But still you haven't answered my question. How can I trust you if you have betrayed your …hero? Imagine what else you are capable of –"

The sound of a bell interrupted him. Christine was inwardly grateful for the interruption. She didn't know what to say to him.

"Your luggage is here, Madame. It seems you already have an admirer! Mr. Hamilton never delivers so early in the morning," Erik stated coldly, looking out of the window towards the gates.

Moments later, after a short knock at the door, James entered to inform him of Mr. Hamilton's visit.

"You may receive your visitor, Madame, but he is not welcome here," Erik said, indicating the library.

"Where is that servant boy? I've got Madame Giry's luggage on my cart." Mr. Hamilton's voice was heard loud and clear, speaking to Emily in the hall.

"Firstly, James is not a servant. He's my …assistant!" Erik said loud enough to be heard all the way to the hall; he looked at James, who blushed with pride at the masked man's words.

"And secondly, if your friend wants to be your knight, let _him _bring your luggage himself!" Erik said for only Christine to hear, his voice laced with raw sarcasm.

"You may be excused," he added in a cold manner, as if addressing an annoying stranger.

Christine stood for a moment, shocked by his behavior. She looked him sternly in the eyes before turning her back to him. He had dismissed her as a maid, and was absolutely uninterested in Mr. Hamilton's possible appeal to her. If he had wanted to insult her with his tone, he hadn't succeeded, but if he had wanted to hurt her, it was a completely different case. Could her coming to his house have been nothing more than a big mistake?


	12. A declaration of love

Thank you, all, for reading and reviewing!

Extra virtual hugs to Desiree and TOWDNWTBN—you are great!

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**CHAPTER 12 - A declaration of love**

Contrary to what Minnette thought, Erik believed in God. He also believed there were as many Gods as people on earth, as everyone seemed to have a different notion and comprehension regarding what was divine and what was evil. That way, Minnette's God was a forgiving, loving one, while Nadir's God showed him a steady road to walk in life. Through a strict ethical code, He offered him a clear definition of what was right and wrong. Christine's God, at least when she was at the Opera House, was a comforting one, providing solace to her broken heart, while Emily's God was a companion and a friend.

On the other hand, Erik believed_ his_ God had a strange, almost sick sense of humor, playing with him like a puppet. It was as if his sorry existence needed one more reason to be drowned in frustration and despair. Erik could not find another reason for Christine's living in his house, a true shadow of herself, only to remind him of her ruined life. Although confident his former love for her was nothing more than ashes, he could not be comfortable with her constant presence in all the rooms of his house. Even if she weren't there herself, it was her perfume, her gloves or her open book that challenged his senses. He was no longer the insanely jealous, heartbroken man who had deliberately left reminders of her in every room. _That _Erik was gone. His obsession, along with his futile dreams of a life with her, were safely confined under lock and key at the East Wing of the Twin House. The small key, hanging from his neck, was a constant reminder that any romantic notion was nothing but a dream broken and buried long ago.

But like a former addict who accidentally finds himself with a large amount of opium at hand, Erik knew he ought to be careful. During the following days, he became even more determined to avoid any encounter with the source of his anxiety. Not caring what impression he made, he had spent most of his hours at the Twin House, coming to the Red Door Cottage just for James' lessons.

With the dog as his companion, and after a nerve-wracking lesson with James, during most of which his student had been talking about Christine, Erik had found solace in his library with a strong cup of tea. With only the hope but no real expectation of calming his nerves, Erik let his eyes rest on the flames dancing at the fireplace. Sometimes during times like these, he considered the possibility of Christine's deliberately revealing information to James, just to torture him by hearing it through his student. However, even though she was changed and bitter, he couldn't think her capable of such devious thinking and cruelty. Erik had already decided to let her stay, at least till September, and that was torture enough for his peace of mind.

The soft knock at the library's door only caused him to firmly close his eyes as the familiar scent of roses and lavender entered the room along with the woman who wore it. He abruptly stood and turned to look at her, addressing her with the most casual tone he could muster.

"You look well, Madame!" Erik lied with effort, noticing the black circles under her eyes. "I would like to sit with you for a while, but I have left work unfinished at the Twin House. I have to check some varnish before it gets dry." He realized he was rambling, and just hoped she didn't notice. He started walking towards her and the door behind her.

"Erik, I've been here for almost a week, and I have hardly seen you!" The hurt in her voice was clear enough to make him stand still. Her violet eyes were looking at him, and he couldn't help checking to see if his mask was in place. He ran a shaking hand over it, feeling ashamed of his weakness. With her hair in the usual two braids, without her dark curls loose on her back, framing her pale face, she looked so small and fragile. Her sadness made him feel naked in front of her eyes, vulnerable and pathetic. He hated these feelings! He hated all feelings! Erik started pacing again towards the door, to escape her stare. Maybe it was his turn to reject her company.

"It seems you are trying very hard to avoid me, Erik." Her voice was clear now of all previous emotion.

She kept calling him "Erik," and hearing _his _name from her lips was highly disturbing.  
What wouldn't he have given for her to have called him "Erik" back then, in the Opera House? Now he couldn't stand it. He was being reminded of the pathetic state he had been in during the first seven months he had lived at the Red Door Cottage, when he had thought he was hearing her calling him every hour of the day, or had imagined her whispering his name in his sleep. He preferred not to hear his name from her again, probably more than he preferred not to see her.

She was approaching him with a devious smile on her face. Was she challenging him?  
He stood his ground, trying to form the words he needed to send her away.

"I am not trying to avoid you." He lied effortlessly this time, made anxious by the distance which was closing between them.

"You are lying," Christine stated in a low voice. Her whisper was barely audible, but he was too close to miss. Her eyes were burning into his mask, leaving him all exposed. "You've missed every dinner in the kitchen. Is that a coincidence?" she continued in the same low voice that left him devoid of all defenses. Did she know what her whisper did to him? Was she doing it on purpose?

"I had work…" he started, but stopped when she placed her delicate fingers to his lips to silence him. The contact with his full lips, the only normal feature on his face, sent a violent shiver down his spine. He took a step back as if he had been slapped by her. She blushed, but an enigmatic smile appeared on her face.

"Why…?" he asked with wide eyes. He had to restrain himself from touching his lips where she had touched him seconds ago, feeling she had burned him with her fingers. He inwardly reprimanded himself. If he wasn't used to human touch, there was no need to show it. "Why did you come here, Madame?" He tried to put a verbal distance between them, since his feet were unable to move.

"Why?" She echoed his question in a painfully soft voice, her sweet voice that he knew he would never be able to forget or be immune to. "Maybe…because I love you." Her voice was less than a whisper.

Her hesitant declaration of love shook him to the core, left him standing cold and empty. He felt as if all of his blood had rushed to his brain to help him hear her, understand her, evaluate the sincerity of her words. For a second, Erik closed his eyes, savoring the moment, the only moment in his life these words had been addressed to him. How could something made of thin air, a tiny whisper, words combined together in this peculiar combination, be so precious? How could it hurt so much?

Those exact words spoken a few years ago could have worked to break the spell, to make him a man, a human. But now…now he knew better than the ridiculously obsessed, love-struck creature that had inhabited the cellars of the Opera House. He was half a man, less than what he had been back then. No extreme power over people, no ambitions to fulfill, no music to compose, no voice to enchant, and, of course, no face. If she wanted revenge for all the deceit, all the suffering he had caused her, this was the most brilliant way!

Christine took a step forward. It seemed his silence had made her bolder.

"I love you!" Her voice sounded strange to his ears. He took a deep, slow breath, forcing himself to open his eyes, to look at her. His blazing golden eyes radiated his rage and despair. He saw dread clouding her face.

"I appreciate your feelings, Madame," he replied, his voice sounding cold, almost inhuman. "Would you care to enlighten me as to the nature of your affection?" Erik took a step towards her as she slowly retreated to his leather chair by the fire with small steps backwards. She sank into it, fear evident in her eyes. That was all the evidence he needed to prove her lie. How could she love someone she was still afraid of?

"You've just said you love me. Exactly what kind of love is that? You love me the way you loved me years ago when you humiliated me in every possible way!" Erik saw her wince at his bitter words. _This knife cuts both ways_, he thought as a cynical smile appeared on his face. "Or the way you loved your dear husband, and left him before a year had passed? I know my sins towards you, don't doubt that, but what makes you think you can fool me? …Again?" He hissed against her ear. His deliberately lowered voice caused her to tremble.

His hands grabbed each arm of the leather chair, trapping her between them.  
She looked so small there, almost like a child. But Erik knew too well that there was no child in this room, not anymore, only a grown woman, embittered by her life's outcome.

"What do you see, Madame?" He leaned over her, his mask inches away from her face.  
"What do you see in me?" His blood heated with anger as he watched her, obviously at a loss for words. His knuckles turned white on the arms of the chair, and he tried hard to control his temper.

"Tell me, what is it that you love?" he demanded, his voice filled with fury. Tears started to form in the corners of her eyes.

"You are my Angel…" Christine replied, her voice trembling.

His large hands grasped her shoulders tightly, forcing her to stand up in front of him, her body almost touching his; his nostrils were flaring, his breathing ragged from his effort to control himself.

"Look at me!" he growled. He tried very hard not to shake her to put some sense into her.  
"I'm not an angel, Christine! How can you still believe in that nonsense?" he hissed. "After everything that's happened…" His voice faded. He was at a loss for words, stunned by her naivety.

"You are my angel, MY angel!" she almost shouted. "With you… I feel secure and safe. I feel warm after so many years of coldness…"

With a boldness that shocked him more than her, his cold fingers stroked her warm cheek with such tenderness. Christine let a moan escape her mouth. A small smile formed on her lips. Her eyes shut as she sighed. A single tear escaped her eye.

"It's so easy to feel warm compared to me," Erik said, almost talking to himself, all his prior anger vanished now. She placed her hand on his, pressing it to her face.

"It is not_ love _that you're feeling, Christine." He watched her as she slowly opened her eyes, comprehending his words. "You are confused. You want the clock to turn back to the years when life was full of promise, and I remind you of that age." Painful words, spoken slowly, with a gentle softness perfectly calibrated to soothe a child frightened of the dark. His hand was now on her hair, as though testing its texture, amazed by its silkiness. He was so close to her, and yet felt so distant from that beautiful, broken woman who just wanted refuge.

"You do not love _me_," he stated simply, as though explaining that two and two equals four. His finger caught her tear before it reached her neck. He sighed. This was the closest he had been to another human being in years.

She swatted his hand away, annoyed at his tone.

"I_ do _love you! I know my feelings. I'm not a child, not anymore! Why don't you believe me?" she asked with a hint of despair in her voice. She moved her head back, trying to put some distance between them, which didn't escape his notice. Erik had expected her to recoil from his touch. It surprised him she hadn't done it earlier. Suddenly he felt so very tired. He let himself fall into his armchair, the leather fitting itself around his body like a glove, like a warm embrace. Her scent, roses and lavender, filled his senses, mocking him. He shut his eyes. A headache was forming behind his eyes, growing stronger with each heartbeat. He couldn't let the situation get out of hand.

"I can't believe you," he stated with the same tone as before, as if speaking to an impatient child. His experience with James had helped him more than he thought possible. "I know you mean well, and you think that you truly _believe _what you're saying…" he couldn't repeat her words himself "…but has it ever crossed your mind that Raoul and I are not the only men in the world?"

She looked at him, puzzled.

"Since your father's death, you had always wanted to belong somewhere. That's why you were so vulnerable to the Angel of Music story…" He paused for a while, turning his eyes from her. "Vulnerable to me," he continued, guilt obvious in his voice.  
"I won't explain or justify my actions now. I have very few regrets of my past," he said, furrowing his brow. The brief moment of guilt and weakness shown seconds before was buried under his arrogant tone. "And most of them concern you… I misled you into believing, into even seeing something that does not exist."

"I don't believe you are the Angel of Music, Erik," Christine interrupted him. "I have just told you, YOU are _my _angel!" She knelt on the floor, in front of his chair, looking him straight in his eyes.

"There are no angels, Christine. Not anymore…and the man you knew…the man who_ thought _he was in love with you is no more…" Erik saw her pained look, and averted his eyes from her face. He sighed heavily as he let his head fell back against the chair and closed his eyes. "Will you fetch me a glass of the good doctor's malt, please? I think some 'clarity' from the Scottish springs would be welcome right now."

He sounded a little sad but calm. Christine poured the drink into the porcelain glass and returned to the spot where he was, seating herself on the floor, almost touching his legs. She took a sip of the golden liquid before she gave the glass to him, and winced at the strong taste. It was a small gesture of familiarity that hurt him more than anything that evening had. A gesture a wife might make without a second thought before giving her husband a drink. Was it something she used to share with _him_? Her husband? "He shouldn't mind," Erik forced himself to think. He had no right. Such a small gesture of intimacy, so common in a bride – a living bride. The thought mocked him and all the years he had spent among his fantasies.

He couldn't allow any of it now, no hopeless thinking, no resurrection of a past he had fought so hard to bury deep inside. He wouldn't let her confusion torture him anymore, especially now that he had left everything behind. His free hand reached to his neck to feel the small key that rested under his shirt. Its form welcomed him as to a home. He took a deep, reassuring breath. He was right. The past was buried and sealed, and his future would lie alongside it.

II II II

For the first time this evening, Christine noticed he looked exhausted; nothing like the man who had climbed trees with James near the lake that very afternoon to find the proper one for a tree house. She saw the pulse beating steadily on the strong column of his neck. She wanted to put her finger on his pulse, feel how it throbbed. Christine wanted to touch him there, the only part of his flesh visible except for his hands and the shadowed left part of his face. She needed to feel the life in him. He seemed so solid, so distant. She didn't dare. Instead, Christine placed her hand on his knee. Erik opened his eyes slowly, as if that simple motion hurt him. When he spoke, his tone was remorseful.

"We've played with your soul. I have played with your soul, and I lost mine…  
at least the boy tried to give you the family you've always wanted." Christine opened her mouth to say something, but he didn't let her.

"Why did you come, Christine? To hurt him? To hurt me? To get even for the mess we've made of your life?" His voice was so sad. The firelight did not reach the left part of his face, leaving only his white porcelain mask and its rough, sculptured features in sight, glowing. He looked like a statue of an ancient pagan god, unwillingly brought to the mortal world. Tears started to flow from her eyes, tears she couldn't hold back anymore. For a while, her quiet sobs were the only sound in the room, along with the crackling fire in the hearth.

"Don't cry, you have to be strong now…there is a whole life ahead of you." His soothing voice had a tone which was more fatherly than ever. His hand moved to touch her head, which was resting on his knee, but he changed his mind midway. Instead, he gave her his handkerchief, and when the tears seemed to stop, he looked at her with a hint of a smile on his face.

Christine watched him, trying to guess what he was thinking, a game she had never been good at. Could he be right? Was she once again being driven by her cowardly nature, the weakness that had always plagued her life, making her hurt everyone around her?

She believed she was too strong-minded to conform to the rules living with Raoul dictated without the children and the life she had always longed for. It was so easy for her to disapprove of the way Raoul had let his family run their lives, but had she ever encouraged him to be more independent? Had she ever complimented his efforts or eased his worries as a devoted wife should? On the contrary, she had been watching him closely, waiting for every false move, every misunderstanding to bloom into a quarrel, for every doubt to multiply, until her mean, deprecating comments and his weakness drove them apart.

She had been an awful wife. Christine knew that. She lacked in patience, and most of all, she lacked in love, in respect, in admiration, what a wife ought to have for her husband.  
Christine had, over and over again, wondered if the two of them had any real chance of finding happiness together, even if the ghost of her Angel had not constantly been in their lives.

Raoul had been a caring, loving husband most of the time, trying so hard to please her. At the same time, Raoul had always wanted to please _everyone_: his brother, his friends, his family, his wife.

Christine realized _she _had been mostly to blame for their disastrous marriage. Her unwillingness to leave the past behind her, her hesitation to truly relax around Raoul and allow herself to create new bonds with him, maybe stronger than the one she had with Erik, had doomed their relationship. But still, she couldn't help thinking that their hasty marriage, his own unwillingness to understand how important her Angel was for her, and her own deep guilt for betraying Erik, had doomed their common future.

Christine hadn't been able to stand Raoul's hurt look whenever he caught her daydreaming or how afraid he was of her silence. As if thoughts of Erik would grow only in silence. How naïve he was! How naïve she had been, thinking there would be only two in that marriage! But even if Christine could have gotten used to her husband's behavior, even if her son were alive and well, she knew deep in her heart she could never have forgiven his words.  
Christine would always remember the despair, the anger, the feeling of total helplessness that had filled her upon hearing him. She had not been capable in her state to stand up and leave that wretched place. And she had had no place to go, no one to love her unconditionally. Not anymore.

"Where shall I go now?" Christine hadn't realized that the torturesome question from the past had actually escaped her mouth. So deep had she been in her thoughts that she didn't even realize she was actually crying, not until she felt Erik's cold fingers gently wiping the tears from her cheeks. He was looking at her with a puzzled expression.

"Christine, how can you ask that? Don't you know you can stay here for as long as you want?"

His voice was so gentle, so soothing, like liquid velvet embracing her. The way he spoke her name, so rich in color and emotion that it brought fresh tears to her eyes. Just hearing him after so many years, after so many nightmares in which his lifeless body had lain on her lap, made her feel whole and alive again. A broad smile formed on her face as she looked at his golden eyes. She tried to speak, but only a sob escaped her mouth. She shook her head to regain her composure. In vain! She was unable to stop the tears.

Christine mouthed a shaky, broken "thank you," knowing Erik would misunderstand her. He'd think she thanked him for giving her shelter when all she wanted was to thank him, fate, heaven, or hell for his being alive. At the moment, she could not care less what the future held for her. She was so grateful, so relieved he was alive and strong before her. If Erik was alive, everything was possible again! Holding his large hands within her own much smaller ones, Christine hid her whole face in his hands, smiling at their coldness as a new wave of tears started shaking her.

She didn't know how long they stayed in that position, Christine sitting on the floor with her head buried in his hands, squeezing them to relieve all her anxiety and anguish, Erik sitting on his leather chair, bent over her, with his chin barely touching her hair. For the first time in years, Christine felt at home.


	13. Chess strategies

Hello, everyone!

I hope you had a nice weekend. I'm now back to posting one chapter per week, and more than anything I want to thank all of you who follow this story.

Extra thanks to those who review. You are great!

Hugs to Desiree and TOWDNWTBN!

* * *

**Chapter 13- Chess strategies**

"Look at that design I drew yesterday! That might work with the height difference," James said, pointing at a complicated system of ropes and pulleys that seemed to fill the drawing paper.

Erik remembered all too well that the boy had been highly impressed by the drafts he had designed almost three years ago as he had tried to find a way to lift the 24x18-foot false ceiling he had prepared. This sculptured gilt surface, which covered almost the entire ceiling, was extremely heavy. On top of that, it also had to lie at an angle and be able to adjust the degree of this angle as required. Only by manoeuvring a complicated system of pulleys and tackles had Erik been able to lift it into place, but not without pain and injuries.

He stroked his shoulder as he looked at James' design. He needed no reminder of the way he had dislocated it falling almost 15 feet while wanting to check how stable and secure his work had been. His work was fine; the ladder wasn't. He furrowed his brow at the memory, glancing quickly at James' flushed face. The boy was thrilled with this tree-house idea he had gotten.

"The angle is too great. This will break, no doubt," Erik said, pointing with his index finger at a weak spot in the design. "Don't forget the wind. We can only use the thicker branches, twelve inches or more…"

Sighing heavily, Erik took a sip of his cold, strong tea, his eyes never leaving the drawing before him. For more than two hours, he had been trying to explain to James that his design for a two-storey tree house, though ambitious, was at the very least difficult to execute. The two of them had already inspected the part of the oak forest which was within the borders of the Twin Houses' estate, had climbed numerous trees to check their strength, and to Erik's disappointment, had actually found a couple of trees that could be ideal for the unusual plan. At the moment, they were both leaning over the huge desk with every drawing and design laid out in front of them. After working with almost every kind of building construction that existed in western and eastern culture, Erik refused to be challenged by a tree house. But was it worth it? A two-storey tree house on the Red Door Cottage estate? This wasn't the Royal Forest of Dean!  
The atrocious thing about the design was that its numerous attachment points on the branches for safety and security weren't worth the time or the effort, but James' hopeful stare was hard to miss and even harder to disappoint. With a few changes, maybe…

Emily's knock on the door was louder than usual.

"May I come in for a minute?" The scowl was evident in her voice. Emily would never get used to the idea of the locked library.

"Give us ten minutes!" James shouted in Erik's ear, earning the boy a highly disturbed look. The little devil knew all the man needed to tempt him was a good challenge, and that then he would have his way with the plan. It was written all over his freckled face.

"I would gladly leave you alone for as long as you'd like, but I highly doubt Mr. Hamilton will do the same. I have just seen him walk down the road towards the front gates…and he looked to be in a hurry!" Emily knew she had their undivided attention.

Erik could almost see her smiling behind the door while James unlocked it, muttering incoherent complaints to himself. The front gate's bell rang in the library as Emily walked victoriously into the room.

"There you are! Mr. Hamilton will be here in a minute. Do you want me to prepare some tea?" She smiled at them broadly.

"Prepare nothing! Mr. Hamilton is not my guest, and I find uninvited visitors extremely annoying." Erik sounded irritated. That earned him a raised brow as Emily silently questioned him regarding Christine. The "music teacher from the past" story didn't seem enough to satisfy her feminine curiosity!  
"He won't stay long, I assure you," Erik commented, folding the designs.

Mr. Hamilton's knock on the red oak door was shy. A sound as if he was clearing his throat was heard as Christine opened the main door.

"Madame Giry! I've missed you this Sunday at church. Your presence alone can make Father John's long, boring sermons worthwhile."

Christine's soft chuckle was clearly heard in the library. Erik's hands squeezed the rolled-up designs he was holding a little harder.

"You're flattering me, Mr. Hamilton, but I doubt Father John would appreciate your opinion of his sermons," she commented lightly.

"I've asked you to call me Daniel. Your French accent gives an exotic aura to my overly common name…"

A look of disbelief appeared on Erik's face, quickly replaced by a look of pure disgust.

"Come in…_Daniel_. I'll let Erik know you're here," Christine's voice replied with a hint of amusement.

The cup of Russian tea that Erik was holding slipped onto the desk, spilling its contents all over the parchments.

"Damn it!" Erik exclaimed, adding some curses in French as he tried to control the damage with his handkerchief. Emily approached, eager to help.

"Everything is fine now!" she said after wiping the desk with a clean cloth.

"Fine?" he growled, looking at her as if she had said the greatest absurdity possible.  
Erik glared at her, fuming as he threw a completely ruined design into the fire. Tea had blotted the sketches beyond repair.

"Damn!" he grumbled, walking to the window.

After a couple of minutes engaged in what seemed to be an intimate chat, Christine walked into the library with Mr. Hamilton just a step behind her. Erik had his back turned to them, looking at the lake, tapping his long, ink-stained fingers on the windowsill. When he heard them coming, he turned to face them. He could swear Mr. Hamilton took a small step back at the sight of his brooding face. A wicked half-smile formed on his lips, but faded soon under Christine's reprimanding stare.

"Mr. Hamilton! I was not expecting you!"

Mr. Hamilton blushed and cleared his throat again in anxiety. Erik got mad at himself. It was hardly his intention to make the man feel comfortable, but there was no need to demonstrate such poor social skills once more.

"I apologize, Mr. Rochelle, but I didn't have any other way to inform you, so I took the liberty of coming uninvited," Mr. Hamilton said with a shy smile.

"Inform me of what?"

"You see, I'm leaving due to family reasons, so if you have any orders from the town or London, I'd be glad to help you… if I send the orders now, they will arrive by the time I'm back," Mr. Hamilton hastily explained. "I have also brought your mail," he added, handing him a pile of letters.

"When are you going to be back?" Erik asked with no real interest in his voice, looking at his mail – the monthly report from his accountant in Paris, a letter from his solicitor in London, another from Alexander Arnaud, a London newspaper. As he left the newspaper on his desk, another, smaller letter slipped through the pages into Erik's hands. It wasn't difficult to recognize the familiar hand of his very own "ghosts." Frustrated, he opened the note and quickly read it before tossing it away to the blazing fire. "Nonsense!" he mumbled, gritting his teeth.

"Is anything wrong, sir? I hope it's not bad news!" Mr. Hamilton asked with unwanted concern, which annoyed Erik even more. He looked at Christine apprehensively, but unlike Mr. Hamilton, she didn't seem to notice.

"It would be nice if it were news at all! Some silly joke, nothing more. Some children with a sick sense of humor about the 'residential' ghosts. Nonsense, really. So when are you coming back?" Erik rushed to change the subject. The last thing he needed at the moment was to have to explain the silly notes to Christine.

"I hope you don't think I had anything to do with that joke!" Mr. Hamilton worriedly said, looking solemnly at everyone in the room.

"Do not worry, Mr. Hamilton. I assume you have far better things to do. You haven't answered my question, though," Erik said in an impatient manner.

"Well, I'll be back in about three to four weeks, no more." The man sounded more relaxed now.

"In that case, there are some supplies I will need. Take a seat, please." Erik could not have him standing while he wrote the list, even though it was very tempting. His eye caught Emily, who clearly had been standing by the door all this time. It seemed that only James had considered it polite to leave the room before Mr. Hamilton came in. Erik disliked audiences when music was not involved. He looked at her through narrowed eyes, but Emily continued to look at him expectantly.

"Would you like some tea?" He resigned himself to his fate of having a guest against his will, and gestured for him to sit on the sofa.

"I'd love it!" Mr. Hamilton eagerly replied.

To his guest's delight, Erik almost filled the parchment with his orders. Christine had joined them for tea after Erik's suggestion. After all, it was the polite thing to do, even though he hardly appreciated the way Mr. Hamilton was looking at her or the easy talk between them. Erik tried to overhear what they talked about, and found it trivial and unimportant. Yet, Christine was smiling at _Daniel _and offered him muffins.

Mr. Hamilton was having an "Emily tea," which, according to the house language, meant at least two kinds of muffins and finger sandwiches. Most importantly, it meant that Emily, for some unknown reason, favored the man. Erik raised his visible brow when she entered the room with the large tray in hand. He hadn't had an "Emily tea" for more than a month, and he didn't want Mr. Hamilton to feel too welcome. He also could see no reason for such festivities.

"When are you leaving?" Erik asked the man as soon as Emily left the room with a constant, extremely annoying smile on her face.

"Tomorrow, I guess. I have everything prepared... It's not a long trip, but it will be quite tiring," Mr. Hamilton replied, helping himself to one more cucumber sandwich.

Erik nodded. Should he ask where he was going? Would it be appropriate? Would it be expected? He sighed heavily. He didn't care where the man was going, but he didn't want to appear rude or without manners. He remembered the golden-eyed lion in the painting over Mr. Hamilton's polished desk that James had described years ago. Erik had seen it himself the last time he visited the Englishman's office. Was he fond of painting? The stag's head with the cold glass eyes, just opposite the desk – probably the owner's latest hunting trophy – was nearly at the level of Erik's head as he stood. The poor taste of Mr. Hamilton's "trophies" display was almost unbearable. No, this was no man of the arts.

Erik thought of all the boring hunting stories a relevant question might initiate and remained silent. He realized he ought to thank the man, since he had come all this way from the village, but he wasn't persuaded that this was the real reason for Mr. Hamilton's visit. He took another look at the man now talking to Christine _again_! He wore a grey jacket that contrasted with his light brown hair, which shone under the fading sunlight. He surely wasn't an ugly man, but neither was he a handsome one. His face had such plain features that they made it extremely difficult to recall after a while. His most interesting feature was the color of his eyes, a light blue so like ice that they usually made him look cold and serious. Traits Erik had appreciated in the past, but at the moment seemed to be absent from his visitor's behavior, especially towards Christine. Erik concentrated on_ Daniel's_ features. No doubt nothing special. But still, he was not an ugly man! He was a plain-featured _younger _man.

Erik stirred in his chair. Should he find a topic for discussion? He knew all too well that he looked completely unsocial, hardly saying a word, still sitting at his desk rather than joining them on the sofa, but he couldn't help it. He was feeling uncomfortable around people, and this was still_ his_ house. Christine obviously enjoyed Mr. Hamilton's _delightful _company, but he certainly didn't! He hated that feeling of helplessness as he watched them laughing at Mr. Kessler's new adventure. Who the hell was this bloody Mr. Kessler, and how did Christine know about him?

The whole situation had started to get to his nerves. How long would the man stay, eating his muffins and enjoying the "Emily tea" which should be meant for him? Blue must have sensed his master's tension, because he left his usual spot on the chair by the desk and placed his head on Erik's knee, earning a light stroke behind the ears.

"This is an excellent chess set, if I may say so." Mr. Hamilton's voice caught Erik's attention. "I haven't seen anything like this! The board is exquisite, but the pieces…the king, the pawns…it's a work of art…" The man was so impressed that he stood up to take a closer look at the table with the chessboard.

Erik nodded in agreement. It was indeed a magnificent piece of work, made in Spain. The trick was in a lever that moved the board inside an area in the table when it wasn't used. On top of the board, when it was lowered, was a fitted piece of sparkling crystal the size and shape of the table which protected the pieces from damage or dust. The most unique trait of the workmanship was the actual rough design of the pieces. The black pawns were carved from an almost black, dark-colored rock, like marble or granite, while the white were transparent, made of thick crystal similar to the material that covered the table. Mr. Hamilton noticed that some pieces had been moved into the positions of a game apparently left unfinished.

"It's hard to find someone who enjoys chess around here…" he noticed, obviously curious about the identity of the other player.

Erik tried to trace his guest's thoughts. A stiff Frenchman, a reclusive freak, could hardly have any friends. For all Mr. Hamilton knew, Erik was a wealthy hermit living in a supposedly haunted cottage with a housemaid and an imbecilic boy. However, "Christine Giry" was a different case for Hamilton. Her presence alone brought light into the room. Her beauty was laced with an aura of nobility which had more to do with her moral character than her moronic husband's family status. It was palpable, even with the modest dresses she was wearing and her plain hairstyle; there was no doubt about it. She was gentle, polite and always smiled, even though that smile never reached her eyes. Did Mr. Hamilton notice the sadness underlying every graceful movement, every glance from her eyes? Was it deafening for him as it was for Erik?

On the other hand, Hamilton might easily think that just living with Erik could be enough cause for anyone to be in a permanent state of sadness. The constant frown on the visible half part of his face enhanced that idea. He watched Daniel Hamilton as he stared at Christine, obviously trying to evaluate the nature of her relationship with his client.

"I'm playing with a friend from abroad. It's a slow game." Erik answered the unspoken question, unwilling to give more details. "Do you play chess?" he asked in an attempt to be polite, hoping it wouldn't sound like an invitation.

"I could hardly consider myself a good player, and chess is not my favorite kind of game, either…" Mr. Hamilton had a strange way of speaking, as if he wanted to say more, but every time, he decided against it. It seemed as if he usually left his sentences unfinished.

"And why's that, if I may ask?" Erik sounded a bit more interested than before.

"Well, I believe that in order to win in chess, you have to know…or at least a player of my intellect has to know the opponent very well. It's not a matter of foreseeing every possible move. I can't do that. I'm not so intelligent… it's a matter of judging the other player's character. What movements will he prefer? What risks will he take? What pieces will he sacrifice at what stage of the game? Will he guard his queen, his castle, his knights, and at what cost?" His eyes sparkled. He was standing, his fingers absentmindedly caressing the back of the sofa as he spoke.

"Interesting thought. In every game, though, some pawns have to be sacrificed in order to win," Erik noticed.

"According to my theory, the interesting part is which sacrifices the specific opponent is willing to make. If I knew that, I would win every game!" Mr. Hamilton exclaimed enthusiastically, showing a passion Erik would never have guessed he possessed.

"I haven't heard that point of view before." He sounded almost intrigued.

"It's either a point of view or a shameless excuse for being such a mediocre player!" Mr. Hamilton shrugged his shoulders.

Erik half smiled at his comment. Mr. Hamilton relaxed even more, sitting again on the sofa beside Christine. His eyes took in the details of the enormous room before resting on the chessboard again.

"It would be highly unprofessional of me not to make an offer…I have at least two clients in Worcester and Swindon who would pay a small fortune to own this magnificent chessboard." Having said that, Mr. Hamilton actually offered an absurd amount of money that made Christine look at Erik with apprehension.

"The chessboard is not for sale, Mr. Hamilton," Erik replied, easily mastering an expressionless face. Mr. Hamilton naively made a new, even larger offer.

Erik's former good mood quickly vanished under Mr. Hamilton's persistence.

"As I've told you before, the chessboard is not for sale, nor is anything else in this house!" Erik's tone was cold and distant. Would that man never leave his house?

"I do apologize, Mr. Rochelle. I'm afraid I would never forgive myself if I didn't make the offer…" Mr. Hamilton said in a light manner. "I saw you have a grand piano in the other room. Excuse my interest again. It's more of a professional habit to look at the surroundings, the furniture…" Mr. Hamilton explained, smiling at Christine, who was looking at him tensely, clearly afraid that a new offer would make Erik explode. Erik saw her worried expression and forced himself to relax, or at least to seem relaxed. He would be damned if he let his temper get the best of him in front of Christine.

"It belonged to the previous owner of the house," Erik replied wearily.

"Ahh, yes, the two spinsters!" It seemed Mr. Hamilton, oblivious to Erik's mood, was fond of small talk.

"I thought one of them was widowed," Erik commented hoarsely. He tried to appear civil, but in vain! He was not a man of patience. No matter how hard he tried, he would never be a man of patience. He growled at the sight of Mr. Hamilton taking another sandwich. That only managed to earn him a look of disapproval from Christine. He took a deep breath, looking again at his oblivious guest.

"Yes, you're right…I wasn't living in the village when it happened. I don't know a lot about them… do you play the piano? " Mr. Hamilton asked with great interest.

"Yes. I think I do," Erik replied coldly. The man seemed not to notice.

"Will you play something for us?" Mr. Hamilton asked with a smile which slowly faded as he looked more closely at Erik's expression.

Christine held her breath. The visible half of Erik's face turned red, contrasting with his white mask. He looked like a man trying very hard to restrain himself.

"What do you think I am, sir? Your monkey… to order me to play the piano? Who do you think you are? My master?" His voice was cold and deliberately low at first, which made him look even more intimidating, but as he spoke, it gradually rose.  
Mr. Hamilton flinched but remained calm at this highly inappropriate outburst.

"It seems I have to apologize again, sir… for my rudeness this time. I didn't mean to insult you in any way…you see, I'm one of the unfortunate people who can't learn music no matter how hard they've tried. I'm really incompetent in that field, but I appreciate music more than anything in the world. I deeply cherish whatever chance I have to enjoy it," Mr. Hamilton explained in a hasty manner. "If you'd excuse my enthusiasm and accept my apology, I would greatly appreciate it…" He looked genuinely remorseful. Erik looked at the man. Christine's frightened look didn't escape him, either. Once more, he had effortlessly managed to embarrass himself with his ugly, brutish manners. What did she expect of him? To play "best friends" with the man or get violent in front of her? Her look indicated that the latter was what she was afraid of.

"Apology accepted, Mr. Hamilton," Erik growled. "I'm afraid I don't share your 'enthusiasm' for music," Erik lied, looking straight at Christine as he handed the man the list. _Let her add "liar" to her list! I don't care_, he thought. He wasn't ready to open his soul to anyone. For a minute, Mr. Hamilton gazed at him seriously as if he doubted the truth of his statement. "Enjoy your trip. I appreciate the effort it took to come all the way here." Erik started to walk towards the window, indicating the visit was over.

"Thank you, Mr. Rochelle. It was my pleasure!" Mr. Hamilton replied to Erik's turned back, and walked out of the room.

Erik bent his head in shame. His vulgar nature had managed effortlessly to resurface in front of Christine. His façade of being a changed man living among normal people had been destroyed in less than a few weeks' time. After all, she had only watched him interact with the two people Erik _paid _to be with him. Pathetic!

He heard Christine's soft steps as she slowly approached him by the window. Erik didn't have the strength to look at her face. At that moment, he actually hated her. With that woman, everything was different. He hated the way she so easily exposed his misery, his inability to live as a normal man, no matter how hard he tried. She made him feel more vulnerable and useless than ever. Less than a man, not capable of bearing a decent conversation, hardly finding anything to say unless he barked and frightened people away. His hands clenched into tight fists. Ridiculous!

Maybe it was for the best. That would drive her away, and the sooner she left, the better. He stiffened as he felt Christine's warm hand on his shoulder. He knew she would eventually leave. It was a matter of time till she regained her confidence, her hopes. The world needed Christine among the living to be a brighter place, and when she was healed, she would need a vibrant place to glow. There was nothing here for her, and he had been clear about his feelings from the beginning. He didn't love her, probably never really had, but at least he hoped…his pride required he not lose his dignity until that time came.

Christine's hand kept stroking small, hesitant circles on his back. He was amazed by her touch. Gentle, soft and warm.

"Mr. Hamilton is the sixth person who has ever set foot in Red Door Cottage," Erik said coldly, his eyes fixed on the lake's green waters. "I'm not used to people. I will never be," he stated. There was no time for false hope and pretending.

"It's all right, Erik. He_ was _rude," Christine said softly, but she withdrew her hand from his back and let it fall by her side. He saw her trying to meet his eyes, but they were well hidden under his furrowed brow and his mask. He looked at their reflection in the window's glass, hardly recognizing her in the reflection of the woman who looked back at him. As for Erik…only his white mask was visible.

"Can't teach an old dog new tricks," he said coldly, straightening his shoulders. "Perhaps you should reconsider your decision to stay here. I could arrange work and accommodation for you at the London Theatre." He continued as though he were talking to a stranger. He didn't even look at her before he left the room with silent steps.


	14. Second chances

Hello, everyone!

This chapter is a bit longer than the rest but I feel it works better that way. I hope it is not utterly boring... (Maybe this is the reason FF didn't let me post it yesterday. Hmm...)

I want to thank everyone who reads this story. Extra thanks to those who review-You are great!

I'm always grateful to Desiree and TOWDNWTBN for their hard work!

* * *

**CHAPTER 14 -Second chances **

Erik walked gracefully into the kitchen, his black-clad silhouette bathed in sunlight. At least three dozen roses of every shade and color in existence, except red, rested in his arms. Christine, sitting in the armchair at the furthest corner of the room, watched Emily blink, momentarily blinded by the glorious morning light and all the shades of yellow, white, and pink.

"Your roses for the syrup," Erik said as he unceremoniously let the flowers fall on the countertop. "I hope they are enough," he murmured.

"They would have been a week ago, when I asked for them in the first place!" Emily's complaint for his delay contrasted with the genuine grin on her face.

"You are hard to please!" Erik said in a light tone.

"That's right, I am! And don't find an excuse to leave… we are out of wood!" she said, keeping his attention.

"Again? I thought I'd chopped last—"

"No, it was the Sunday before, and there are hardly any logs left in the barn."

"I was sure there would be enough till the end of the week," he said as he grabbed a spoon and took a mouthful of sauce from the pot.

"It's not ready!" she exclaimed, smacking his hand lightly with her wooden spoon, trying to appear serious. "And I was not the one complaining of the cold early this month!"

"It was cold, woman! You have said it yourself: '_the worst September ever_!'" he said, mimicking her Welsh accent with a chuckle. "And you are right…it's certainly NOT ready! Needs salt and more nutmeg," Erik said, referring to the sauce as he took a handful of almonds from a bowl.

Christine was deeply surprised by the carefree conversation taking place. Erik was in such a good mood. He looked so much younger, and his chuckle had a deep, melodic, masculine sound she had never heard before. He was always so tense and guarded around her. Nothing like the man Emily seemed to know.

"Not everyone likes nutmeg as you do," Emily said, turning her gaze to Christine.

Christine could sense Erik stiffen without even looking at him. His muscles tensed and his smile faded as he glanced over his shoulder in her direction. He ran his hand over his mask and hair in that new, unconscious habit of his, before his tilted head turned to look at Christine. He had obviously not seen her when he walked into the room, but what she wanted to know was whether he had actually missed her during the last few days after Mr. Hamilton's visit, as it was now Christine's turn to find excuses to avoid dinner. Obviously, Erik's dark mood seemed to diminish during her absence.

"I like nutmeg," she stated awkwardly.

"If it were in Erik's hands, he would put nutmeg even in the apple pie," Emily commented. She seemed determined to have the two of them in a conversation.

"Those are beautiful roses," Christine said shyly, approaching the countertop. "No red ones, though," she noticed.

"Of course, no red ones! Erik doesn't waste them for food! They are for experiments only!" Emily complained.

"Experiments?" Christine asked her, glancing briefly towards Erik, who leaned against the counter.

"Emily makes it sound as if I'm a scientist gardener! I'm just using some roses for color breeding. I selectively breed some roses for their colors and their aroma, and test what happens with the offspring. That's all," Erik explained, but his eyes sparkled.

"He is too modest," Emily said to Christine. "He has the most beautiful rose garden at the Twin House, but he hasn't the heart of a gardener. He is more of a scientist than a true gardener!" she stated matter-of-factly.

"That's what Emily thinks because I'm organized and I don't see fit to _talk _to plants!" he defended himself, smiling at Christine. Smiling at her was a strange, almost unfitting sight. Still, she felt it warmer than the autumn sunrays on her flushed face. Christine smiled back at him, looking at his shining, golden eyes. It was as if the ice between them melted in front of her eyes.

"You talk to plants?" Christine asked Emily, trying to restrain her laugh, but succeeding poorly. Maybe that was all that was needed. Simple chats and everyday routine to put the past behind them.

"I do talk to my flowers…and herbs…_occasionally_. I'm not ashamed of it!" Emily said, embarrassed.

Erik chuckled again, gazing at her red face.

"You don't seem unashamed!"

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, eating all the almonds for the pie!" she said, pointing at his hand, which was still full of almonds.

"This woman lives to complain!" Erik stated, looking at Emily's pouting face. In a deliberately slow manner, he picked another almond from the bowl and put it in his mouth.

"That's it! He's done it again! He is worse than James!"

Christine's hearty laugh filled the room.

"Worse than James?" she repeated, unable to restrain her laughter, amazed at how relaxed Erik seemed to be around Emily and how well he took every word she said. The two of them were teasing each other in a way Christine could not even think possible.

"I can't make anything in the kitchen without the two of them interfering! James is always the first to taste the food! The first plate is for him no matter whether it's hot, cold or _not ready yet!" _

"She is a true tyrant!" Erik interrupted, smiling at the blonde woman.

"And you are worse!" Emily exclaimed. To Christine's surprise, Erik was not offended by the accusation. "He eats the ingredients before I'm able to use them. Whenever I'm making a pie, he eats the filling, no matter what it is. Fruits, herbs, name it. Peanuts, almonds, raspberries, apples, cherries…I don't know if this is an indication he doesn't like my cooking because he may leave his food untouched afterwards," Emily said to Christine as if Erik were not present.

"Stop nagging, Emily. Your cooking is cherished in this house! James' appreciation alone should be enough to satisfy your culinary self-esteem," Erik said in an exasperated tone, biting back a smile.

"I have no complaints about that," Emily said before turning again to Christine. "When I came here, I thought I wouldn't stay for more than a month."

Christine watched Erik's face become more serious at the statement, but Emily didn't notice it.

"I thought no one liked food in this house, so I'd be fired in no time. I didn't know who was thinner, Jamie or Erik. Skeletons really, just skin and bones!" Emily smiled at her memory, oblivious to the impact of her words.

Erik's face turned pale, and his eyes locked on his boots.

Emily obviously hadn't heard of the "skeleton" or "the living corpse" comparison, but Christine, on the other hand, had the full experience, and Erik was not a man with a sense of humor regarding his physical appearance. His sad glance at her spoke volumes. His "skeletal" body had improved, but his "skeletal" face would never improve, no matter what.  
Christine could almost see the broken ice re-form into an enormous iceberg in front of her eyes.

"What are you going to make with the roses?" she asked, trying desperately to change the subject.

Erik provided a fake half-smile for Emily's sake, which surprised Christine even more.

"I have to prepare James' lesson," he muttered. The excuse must have sounded weak, even to his own ears, considering James wouldn't be home from the village for at least a couple of hours. He put the almonds into his other hand and left the room without another word.

II II II

"What just happened? What did I say that was wrong?" Emily asked, still hearing Erik's boots clicking on the wooden floor, in a quite unusual manner for him.

"It is nothing you have said. It's me," Christine replied, walking towards the door to leave the room.

"Wait! What do you mean, it's you? You have hardly said a word!"

"_Unlike you_, I have the tendency to make Erik feel uncomfortable." Christine's stare was cold as she turned to confront Emily.

"What do you mean 'unlike me'?" Emily asked, offended, as Christine's hidden accusation hadn't escaped her.

"I'm not implying anything, Emily. Obviously, Erik feels more comfortable around you than he has ever felt around me. It's only natural. I'm the only one to blame. Not you, not him." Her voice was cruel but changed as she went on. "I have done…things no one would forgive. I can't even forgive myself. I have wronged him, I used him…It is to be expected that he is cold towards me."

"Christine, why are you here?" Emily asked in a soft, compassionate whisper. It was hardly her place, and she almost expected the other woman to say exactly that, but she couldn't help it. She had never been good at controlling herself. Over the past weeks, her mind had been filled with a hundred different speculations. However, redemption had never been on her list.

"Why am I here?" Christine laughed cynically. Emily tried not to feel offended as her curiosity goaded her. Her silence was rewarded as Christine continued to speak in a more confessional tone. "I wish _I _knew anymore. I came here thinking I had all the answers, but maybe he's right. We are not the same people anymore…" Then Christine took Emily's hand in hers and pressed it hard, as if trying to make her understand something the other woman clearly couldn't.

"I wish I had been stronger, wittier, more mature. I had a chance and lost it. I have wasted every hope of being whole…I can't expect everything to be as it was, but still, I wish it with all my heart…if he only believed me…" the frustrated woman said in one breath, enigmatically, her eyes full of tears she didn't allow to escape. Emily started to feel really awkward, as Christine was still holding her hand tightly. "You have to help me! He listens to you…" Christine pleaded.

"Erik listens to me?" Emily almost squeaked.

"Yes, he does!" Christine said in the same cruel tone as before, furrowing her brows. "He wants me to leave, to go to London. He's offered to find me a job there. He doesn't want me in his house... but perhaps you don't want to help me..."

Emily looked at her. Could this be jealousy? Could this woman be jealous of_ her_? She looked more mad than jealous now. And more desperate than any other person she had ever seen in her life.

"If Erik didn't want you in the house, he would have let you know by now. He is a man of strong will, and it is my understanding that when he sets his mind on something, no one, and I mean no one, can change his decision," Emily said slowly, trying to sound neutral as a plan began to form in her mind. "You have to decide where you stand, what you want from him, and I will try to figure out what he thinks of you."

Christine looked at her sceptically, as if wondering exactly how close her relationship with Erik was. Emily had to suppress a smile.

"Do you know how to cook?" Emily interrupted the Frenchwoman's thoughts.

"Not really. Not as you can…but I can learn," Christine added miserably.

"How about you making Erik's favorite dessert?" Emily asked with a devilish smile on her face.

II II II

While Christine was slowly walking towards the library, anxious to present her gift to Erik, Emily, for the first time, let herself doubt the ingenuity of her plan. What she had thought of as an innocent, simple way of telling what Erik felt for Christine seemed the shortest way to disaster at the moment. "There should be a law against people meddling in other people's lives," Emily thought. Maybe _that _could protect her from her own self.

Christine's soft knock on the door sounded like thunder to Emily's ears, and she remained just outside the room, as the two women had agreed. According to plan, Christine would speak in English for Emily to have a clear opinion of the masked man's reaction. What Christine had thought Emily might perceive, if that were the actual plan, Emily couldn't imagine. She ought to be a fortune teller! But no fortune teller was needed to recognize the disgusted frown on Erik's face when the door opened and Emily stole the first glance at him writing at his desk, among books and designs. His visible features were distorted, sensing the ugly smell, and his face immediately turned towards the source of it. When Erik saw Christine concentrating on her effort not to drop the tray she carried, he blinked in astonishment.

Emily had to admit, Christine had surpassed herself. She had awakened her before dawn, her enthusiasm pouring from every pore of her petite body. In spite of her apparent lack of experience and, unfortunately, talent in culinary skills, Christine had proven hardworking, persistent and above all, hilarious in her attempts to "conquer and prevail" in Emily's domain, as she had put it. She was adamant about doing everything by herself, with Emily's guidance, of course.

At the moment, she wore a lavender-blue dress which complimented her eyes and her pale skin. Just lacing up the delicate corset had been a painful, time-consuming procedure demanding Emily's help. The Frenchwoman's hair had been braided into one thick braid which _accidentally _had shifted to her shoulder to allow a clear view of an exceptional pair of silver earrings shaped like tiny butterflies with sapphires and amethysts. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement and several shining curls had escaped and lay against her neck, creating a breathtaking image. Making a mental note to ask for Christine's secret for shining curls, Emily focused on the masked man's reaction; he, oblivious to the blonde woman's presence, was clearly shocked to hear Christine's soft voice proudly announcing her achievement.

"Look, Erik, I made ginger cookies especially for you!"

The masked man gulped and looked around nervously as if looking for a way to escape. For a moment, Emily felt extremely guilty, but the miserable look on his face was so funny that she had to bite her tongue not to laugh. Erik should be grateful that Christine's enthusiastic state, as well as her effort to place the tray on his desk full of books hadn't allowed her to see the expression of pure horror on his face before he managed to hide it. He looked at Christine as if not hearing what she was actually saying.

"And I did it all by myself! Ginger cookies are not easy to make, you know…it is a quite complicated recipe! I brought some Russian tea, too, and some sandwiches. Please try some and tell me what you think!"

Emily watched him looking at the unfortunately generous serving of cookies as if they were going to eat _him _at any moment. Trying to fake a half smile, he placed his hand on his nose in what seemed like a desperate attempt to reduce the offending smell. Alas! There was no point! The cookies smelled as if they had just been baked! The first beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

According to Emily's expectations and theories, there would be a simple reaction to his predicament. Honesty! But clearly, Erik didn't want to hurt Christine's feelings, so he didn't choose that approach. Emily expected he would try to avoid Christine, using some excuse, but nothing of the kind happened. She was quite surprised. After all, he was an intelligent man. He could think of an easy way out. She was dumbfounded, watching the excruciatingly slow movement as Erik placed a ginger cookie into his mouth. She could swear his face turned a strange shade of green in his effort to swallow the bite. Emily doubted if he even chewed it at all. The blonde woman felt like a true villain for doing this to him, but consoled herself, thinking that it should also be considered a sin to play with a woman's heart. Christine looked at Erik's pained face with a worried expression. Her face lost some of its former glow.

"You don't like it. It's no good, is it?" Christine asked miserably.

"No!" Erik exclaimed, coughing. "I just ate it quickly," he added, taking a mouthful of tea. "It's delicious. Never had a better ginger cookie!" At least, he was honest about that.  
"I will save the rest for later…"

Christine gave him a smile that could light the room.

"Tell me what you think of them! What extra ingredient did I put inside?"

Erik looked at her first and then at the plate on his desk with a miserable expression on his face. That was almost too much for Emily to watch. Obviously, Christine had witnessed their tasting game and wanted to be a part of it, but how on earth would he recognize a new ingredient in a recipe he had never tasted before?

"Would you like one more to help you decide?" Christine asked him with the same sweet smile on her face.

"Yes! That was definitely too cruel to watch!" Emily thought, putting her hand on her mouth to silence her laugh.

"No!" Erik exclaimed again. "I know what it is! It's …" The pause was unbearable as the masked man looked nervously at the plate. His furrowed brow and his strained features showed a desperate but focused determination. "Almonds! You have put almonds in!" Erik gave her an expectant look, which was rewarded with an even brighter smile.

"Bravo! You know how much I like almonds! I didn't have the heart not to put some in. You are really good at this! When Emily told me you like ginger cookies…"

Disaster! That was definitely not in the plan! Emily turned slowly to leave, feeling cold beads of sweat on her spine, but halted as she heard her name from the library. It was that low, silken tone she hadn't heard since her first months at the Red Door Cottage. And the sight of Erik standing with his hands clenched at his sides wasn't promising. That wasn't promising at all!

The blonde woman entered the library with a frozen smile on her face. She just hoped Christine's presence would save her this time.

Erik's face was red from embarrassment and fury. He had finally realized who was behind this shenanigan. It was written all over his face.

"So is that right? Is it you I have to thank for this surprise?"

Damn that voice of his! It sounded beautiful, but it felt creepy! How did he do that?

"Well…it was Christine who did it all…all the hard work, everything …"

"Don't be shy! You gave me the idea in the first place!" Christine sensed the change in mood, and tried to help in the worst possible way.

"So the idea for the ginger cookies, for this_ gift, _was yours all along." Erik's voice was challenging, daring Emily to deny it. Christine seemed confused by his behavior.

"That is true… the idea was mine… but Christine did bake them and all…" Emily said in a pathetic tone.

Erik gazed at the two women in a tense silence. Christine, obviously feeling there was something very wrong, took a step forward.

"Angel?" her voice was no more than a whisper Emily hardly heard.

"That's enough! I must ask you to let me finish this work…" Erik started searching among his papers as if looking for something.  
The two women turned to leave, each one submerged in her own confusion.

"Christine, I do thank you for the effort. Emily, I will need a fresh tea in about 20 minutes," Erik added in a cold, emotionless tone.

Emily shivered at his tone. That wasn't promising. Not promising at all!

II II II

Erik slouched on his chair, only to stand up immediately as a new wave of ginger odor insulted his senses. He had become too weak! Letting his employees play tricks on him like that! Erik poured himself a glass of malt and took a large sip. The liquid burned his throat on its way to his stomach. He had never been extremely fond of alcohol. He valued clarity, and for oblivion, there were far more effective means. Still, it was either that or banging his head against the wall. The whiskey had the same effect without the external damage. Hastily, he opened all the windows, taking deep breaths of fresh air. He was furious! He would deal with Emily, but first he should get rid of the cookies. Not even Blue could eat so many ginger cookies! Erik took the offending plate in hand and threw a handful of cookies into the blazing fire when, suddenly, the door opened and Christine's warm voice filled the room.

"If you want fresh tea, I can make…"

Her voice faded as she took in the sight before her eyes. Erik stood wordless, watching Christine's stunned face, her widened eyes, the way her smile petrified as she looked from his face to his hands, at the last of her handmade cookies. The smell of the rest burning left little to the imagination. Erik just stood there, stupefied. No good excuse could explain this mess. Christine blinked. For a moment, he thought she would burst into tears. Instead, she addressed him in a cold, dignified manner.

"If you didn't like my cookies, you could just say so. No need to pretend for my sake, Erik. I would expect some honesty from you…at least, when it comes to such trivial matters as cookies," Christine said icily before shutting the door behind her with a thud.

Erik flinched at the bitterness and venom in her voice. All of a sudden, he felt the urge to break something, to watch something as it shattered into a million pieces. That would be liberating. That would be music to his ears! Maybe that would restrain him from going to the kitchen and yelling at Emily over her outrageous schemes.

II II II

Emily entered the library with apprehensive, small steps. If she were a decent person, she would have her trunk ready and her resignation in hand, but she would be damned if she let this throw her out of the only home she had known in years. She looked around the room, avoiding looking at him. The library was in relatively good shape. Erik's desk wasn't. She was way too familiar with Erik's rage to feel secure enough to look at him.  
His rage was never sated by breaking things. Destroying possessions he cherished was more of a ritual to him. He had once told her about the "few divine moments he watched this absolute, this terminal transition from existence into nothingness that comforted any sense of lost control."  
For Erik, in destruction lay comfort and relief.

Emily dared another look around. All the designs, the parchments, the books were thrown to the floor. A couple of them had landed in the fire. She winced at the sounds her shoes made as she stepped on shards of broken glass. The Venetian lamp, shattered, lay beside the broken coffee table by the sofa. She had liked that coffee table.

"I was expecting you, Madame." Erik's booming voice broke her thoughts.

Emily could swear on everything she held dear and holy that she had never heard that voice before. Every syllable was pronounced in a painfully slow manner, as if along with the furniture, the words were broken, too, shattered words floating in the air.

"I was wondering," he paused as his yellow eyes locked on hers, "when you would muster the courage to show your face."

A chill crawled up her spine. The same voice again, but there was something different. It was like the voice of Death – cold, definite, rigid – coming from inside her own head now. Emily wasn't sure if anyone else heard it. She felt as if she was suddenly trapped inside her body, her inner voice screaming, while his voice suffocated her. She couldn't breathe. She took some hasty, swallowed breaths, feeling the air around her growing thick and hot. A primal fear lurked in her stomach. She wrapped one arm around her middle as if bracing herself for inevitable physical pain. Nothing could ever have prepared her for a feeling like that. She looked at Erik. He stood by his cleared desk, deep in the shadows. There was darkness around him, there was a darkness within him. It was as if darkness radiated from him. He looked like a man who hadn't just faced the dark side of human nature. Danger she couldn't describe poured from every pore of his body.

Emily looked around on the verge of panic. Her first instinct was to run – run out of the room, even out of the house. Anything to stop hearing his voice echoing inside her head. Anything to take a deep breath.

"Emily…?" This was a more familiar voice – more like the one belonging to the man who had wanted his music burned. He had obviously seen her distress. Didn't he realize what his voice was capable of? He surely did. He_ chose _to use it that way.

She tried to find comfort in Erik's familiar features, but in vain. He was deep within the shadows, with only his yellow eyes glowing at her. Emily forced herself to remember that this voice belonged to a man she knew well, a man who liked pies, nutmeg and reading, a man who was nothing but kind to her and James. She inhaled deeply, feeling the air all the way to her stomach. That eased the knot in there a little.

"Are you so bored with your work at the Red Door Cottage that you jeopardize your job with a farce of this kind?"

Emily stared at him for few seconds before realizing he was actually expecting an answer.

"It may have looked like a farce, but it wasn't," her voice broke. She unconsciously wrinkled her dress with her hands, trying to find the courage to go on. "My room is under Christine's… I can hear her cry herself to sleep every night…" Emily would never know where she found the courage for such a lie. Desperate times seek desperate measures!

She heard him sigh heavily at that new information. Maybe she had been right in her assumption about his feelings after all. She tried to compose herself. It was a crucial moment. She had never let a man intimidate her. Not until now. Erik was dangerous. Yet, deep inside, she felt he would not hurt her – at least not intentionally. Her whole plan seemed so insanely foolish at the moment. Emily took a step forward, gaining a clear view of Erik's face.

"Christine wants to know what you feel for her…she thinks you want to send her away. She feels…"

"I don't want to know what Christine feels. She's usually confused about it herself.  
I can't live my life based upon Christine's feelings and desires! Not anymore…"  
Bitterness laced his words.

"I think…I believe she has feelings for you…romantic feelings," Emily added boldly.

"Christine has 'romantic' feelings for me?" Erik's cynical, short laugh filled the room as he walked towards the fireplace.

"She said she wronged you, she made mistakes. She wants things to be the way they were…"

"The way they were?" he hissed. He looked straight into her eyes, his tilted head almost hiding his mask. For a moment, his haunting, penetrating golden stare laced with sadness, his half visible face, looked almost beautiful. Then in a sudden, arrogant move, he raised his head, his white mask in full view as if to show his pride, not dark agony.

"Has she told you how it was back then?" A clear sense of threat laced his words. "Even if I still had feelings for her, I would never want us to be '_the way we were'_! That alone shows how troubled and confused she really is!" he said after a pause. Erik stood silent by the window, his long fingers absentmindedly caressing the wallpaper's patterns. Emily thought his hands had a life of their own. A musician's restless hands while music escaped this house for the time being.

"Christine has suffered a tragedy. It's only natural after this…painful experience for her to make herself believe she was happier then. This is not unexpected in such a situation. But she deludes herself! There were no real solutions in the past. This is a nightmare!" he said, pressing his temple as if he were in physical pain, but when he turned to face Emily, a cynical half smile was all over his face. "You have to learn not to read too much into everything Christine says," he scorned her.

Emily looked at him, feeling her ire rising. He was overanalyzing a quite simple situation, and his patronizing tone was frustrating.

"You are the one who's reading all the time…" Emily paused for while, forcing herself to take a deep breath "I don't know what is expected, I don't even know what this_ experience _is all about… maybe your books can explain everything! All I know is that no woman travels all the way from France to seek a nightmare! Maybe she had feelings for you in the past…" Emily looked at his rigid form by the window, his arrogantly raised brow, and braced herself to continue "You are not indifferent to her, either, no matter what you try to show!"

Erik gazed at her through narrowed eyes, and a vein in his forehead started to pulse, but Emily could control her mouth no more. "Your voice is different when you talk to her. Your voice is different even when you talk _about _her…"

"Stop it! You don't know what you're talking about! I didn't love her. I was obsessed with her! If you think I'm intimidating now…" Erik gave her a strong look.  
"You don't want to know how it was back then. I was addicted to her, maybe it wasn't even her. I was addicted to the pain, the false hope…I don't trust myself when I'm like that. It is not something you'd enjoy watching. Trust me on this…" he added stiffly.

"After all, I don't feel anything remotely 'romantic' for her anymore." He shook his head, as if responding to an inner thought. Erik looked honestly into her eyes. Emily didn't know whom he wanted to persuade. Her or himself?

"All I'm saying is… you should open up a little. Explore your… options… your… possibilities…" If only words helped her.

"Are you insane, woman? Is everyone insane in this house?"

Emily winced as Erik's open palm slammed onto the wall near the window.

"What, exactly, are my _options_?" he asked in an exasperated tone. "To use my money, the security I can provide, and force her into a marriage like yours? Do you know how old she is? Have you, by any chance, noticed _this_?" His raw sarcasm was nothing compared to the empty sound his palm made slapping his mask.

Emily held her breath. He had never even mentioned his mask before! Erik sighed and sat in his armchair, dropping his head, defeated.

He took a deep breath as a small muscle began working at the side of his jaw. "For everyone else, I'm the 'man with the mask.' To her, I'm not even a man. You suggested I should open up. Do you know how it feels for a man like me to deal with feelings again? Do you honestly think I can watch her heal and leave again? I won't use her. I won't be a Mr. Nicholson for Christine." His stare on her was full of anger and despair.

Emily sat hesitantly on the armchair opposite him.

"How old are you, Erik?"

He shrugged his shoulders as an ironic smile formed on his face. "How the hell should I know? Do you think my mother baked birthday cakes to celebrate the _joyous_ event?"  
He chuckled at his own joke. The way he said it, with no hint of bitterness or emotion, without realizing how cruel it really was, but instead, treating it as natural and fitting, brought tears to Emily's eyes.

Erik looked at her, clearly shocked, before handing her his handkerchief.

"Are you all right?" he asked with concern when she was finally able to compose herself.

"I'm sorry," Emily said, cupping her cheeks with her hands, trying to cool her burning face. "I don't know what came over me. I'm overemotional lately. It's just sad…" her voice broke. Emily left her sentence unfinished, and blinked her eyes, trying to avoid further embarrassment. She stood up, taking a few steps and some deep breaths.

"What is sad? That I don't know how old I am? Around 40, I guess," Erik added hastily, probably to avoid a new wave of tears. He looked at her as if contemplating the absurdity of feminine behavior. Emily smiled at his expression of utter astonishment. He must have thought women were really strange!

"Sometimes you look younger than 40," Emily started. Erik looked at her, puzzled.  
"When I said Mr. Nicholson was old-"

"Emily, it doesn't matter-"

Emily silenced him, placing her hand on top of his on the armchair.

Erik furrowed his brow, surprised by her bold gesture, and stayed still as a statue. Emily gave him a reassuring smile, surprised by the coldness of his hand, but didn't withdraw her hand.

"When I married him, I was 16. He was 55 years old." Emily's smile broadened at Erik's expression of disgust. She guiltily remembered the expression he had displayed hours ago, smelling Christine's ginger cookies.

"Don't give up your chance…you'll regret it! Take my word for it! Second chances are rare," she said softly and walked to the door.

"Emily, don't ever try to fool me again." A clear threat lingered in his words despite the light tone.

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Never again. I promise."

"Your room is not under Christine's," he added as she opened the door.

"Maybe I was tired of _your_ pacing, then," Emily said lightly and closed the door behind her.


	15. The giant's heart

I wish to thank Desiree and TOWDNWTBN ( The-One-Who-Does-Not-Wish-To-Be-Named) for their efforts. They are amazing!

I'm grateful to all of you who read and review this story. Extra hugs!

Something you might need for this chapter:

*_Amethyst_ is a violet variety of quartz often used as an ornamental stone in jewelry. The name comes from the Ancient Greek a- ("not") and methustos ("intoxicated"), a reference to the belief that the stone protected its owner from drunkenness; the ancient Greeks and Romans wore amethyst and made drinking vessels of it in the belief that it would prevent intoxication.

* * *

**Chapter 15 - The giant's heart**

"What do you want me to do with this?" James asked, holding a half-burned book.

"What's that?" Erik's hoarse voice was laced with shame. Cleaning the mess he'd made was definitely not a task he took pride in.

"_Les Mille et Une Nuits," _the boy replied, raising the book for Erik to see. Several burned pages fell flying, turning into ashes as they hit the floor.

"What do you think? Throw it away. It is of no use any more."

"Christine was reading it. Maybe we could save these pages…" James muttered, trying to put some pages in order.

"Leave it! She will find another book. _Arabian Nights _are over in this house," Erik growled, grabbing the crystal bottle which held brandy. Thankfully, Mr. Hamilton's supplies had arrived on time. His eyes searched for a glass, but the sound of shards under his shoes mocked his effort.

"Perhaps you should tell her something," the boy suggested calmly. "She hasn't eaten anything all day. I took her tray back into the kitchen."

Erik looked James solemnly in the eyes. His saffron eyebrows were furrowed in worry. When did he grow up to be so wise, so thoughtful?

Erik nodded and raised his palm as if acknowledging to James that he was right. He took a deep breath and left the room.

Ascending the stairs to Christine's room, Erik felt his anger rising. Maintaining his composure became more difficult as he convinced himself that what he had to mend was clearly not his fault. Not wanting to indulge in thinking of Emily's feminine dreams and fixations, he let Christine occupy his thoughts. He understood her bitterness, but such venom? Why? He would never understand this woman - or any other, for whatever it mattered. He had eaten ginger cookies for her! Ginger cookies! He was the victim here. She had brought the nauseating smell into his library, he had tasted it, and, on top of all, he had thanked her! Why should_ he _be the villain in this case?

By the time he knocked on Christine's door, he was already furious, thanks to the predicament the two women had gotten him into. The last thing he needed was another crying woman under his roof. His second knock on her door sounded anything but gentle.

"May I come in?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"No! I don't want to talk to you!" Christine shouted from the other side of the door.

"Don't be childish! You know I'm perfectly able to open this door if I want to - and any other door, for that matter!" He was even angrier than before.

"You and everyone else! It's unlocked!" Christine replied sarcastically. "I just don't want to talk to you right now! I can't even look at you right now!" she said harshly.

Erik tried using the doorknob, and the door simply opened.

"That is hardly shocking to hear, my dear," he said ironically as he took in the sight before him. Christine was sitting in the middle of her canopy bed with her legs drawn up against her chest and hers arms wrapped around them. She still wore the lavender dress that was spread, wrinkled, all over the embroidered cover. She looked perfect in that room. Like a fine detailed painting brought to life. Erik took a deep breath, thinking he would have to remove even the wallpaper when she left.

"Do you need company for your drinking?" she asked him mockingly.

Erik furrowed his brows, confused, only to see he was still holding the brandy bottle. How pathetic that was! He abruptly left the bottle on her dresser. Catching a quick glimpse of his mask in her silver mirror, he fought the urge to turn it around.

The sound of Christine's steps made him turn, only to see her approaching him.  
He silently watched her as she took his hand, opened his palm, and placed the butterfly earrings on his cold hand. They looked so tiny in his large palm. The amethysts reflected the light sharply, providing a poor match for her eyes.

"Will they save me from intoxication?" Erik asked, amused, referring to the name of the stone. *

"Thank you for the earrings, but I can't accept such an expensive gift from you," Christine replied in a grave, serious tone.

"What are you talking about?" he asked guardedly.

"Minnette told me all about them. You bought them for my birthday when I turned seventeen. You gave them to Minnette, ordering her to present it as her own gift."

"Minnette has developed a strange case of selective memory lately," he muttered, displeased, his eyes fixed on the light trapped in the facets of the stones.

"Meg was livid!" Christine smiled at the memory of her friend's reaction. "It was a very expensive gift. I had always wondered about it. I considered it a gift of pity for me. She said you thought it would have been highly improper-"

"It doesn't matter who picked it –"

"It matters when you lie to me! When you constantly keep lying to me! No matter when, no matter where –"

"It's not you…it's not even your cookies…" Erik interrupted her. He knew all too well where this conversation was heading. He inhaled deeply, trying to find a decent way to explain himself. "It's quite simple, actually…I don't like ginger. As a matter of fact, I can't stand it! I can't stand to smell it, to eat it, to even be in the same room with ginger cookies or whatever other disgusting use people have found for this repulsive, nauseating…" his voice trailed off as his mind searched for words to express his loathing for ginger. He was deeply surprised to meet Christine's doubting eyes, staring at him in disbelief. He had been honest, and what was the result? It was pointless! The whole attempt had been pointless from the beginning. Why should he care what she thought of him?

"This is the truth," he stated flatly.

"But Emily said –"

"It was a misunderstanding. It seems Emily doesn't know me as well as she had thought."  
Erik didn't realize what broke the spell, but a large grin formed on Christine's face.

"My god!" She put her hand on her mouth, trying to conceal her laughter. "My poor Erik…you ate it!"

Erik felt really uncomfortable under her joyful but persistent stare.

"Why didn't you say something?"

He felt the room getting hot just remembering the atrocities Emily had said to excuse her idiotic actions. He tried to shake the thought off his mind. Women were romantic by nature. He'd be even more pathetic than he already appeared if he let Emily's nonsense affect him.

Christine walked to her dresser and poured some brandy into a glass. She took a few sips before handing it to him. Erik winced at her gesture. If only she could spare him this parade of innocent marital habits! He looked at the glass with hatred. He could almost see her moron husband's face on the liquid surface. Averting his eyes to avoid any other reflection, he sipped a mouthful of the brandy, blessing his mistake in bringing it with him.

II II II

"Erik, I don't want any more secrets between us," Christine said, sternly looking at his knitted brow.

"I think you lived with Minnette Giry for far too long," he replied, commenting on her strict tone.

"You can place a bet on that!" she chuckled. "Please give me my earrings!" she asked in the mock tone of an order.

"Take them back," he replied, opening his fist. Small red spots appeared where the stones had pressed the flesh.

Christine slowly traced them with her finger. She heard him take in a breath when she outlined the shape of the small butterfly wings. His hands had always amazed her. So powerful, so elegant, so strong. All that Erik was was shown so eloquently in his hands. She followed his long lifeline with her fingertips. If only she had thoroughly observed it before – why had she not paid attention to such small things before? She felt like spreading soft kisses on that bold line. That would surely shock the strong man before her. He often looked at her as if not recognizing her. She couldn't blame him. She barely recognized herself anymore. Yet, how could a small kiss on the hand hurt either of them?

"Take them back. They wouldn't look good on me anyway," Erik said, his voice sounding husky and raw.

Christine was afraid to even smile at his joke concerning his appearance, so she took the earrings and pressed them into her fist. Did he feel it too? Had he willingly, deliberately reminded her of his face? Did he want to end this peculiar moment of intimacy?

She looked into his golden eyes, that expressionless look on his half-visible face he had mastered so well. More than the artistry of his mask, what amazed her was this ability of his to guard his feelings, to treat his face as a mask made of flesh. She knew he was in control now. Nothing she could say, nothing she would do could shake this mask of stone.

"I don't want you to pretend you are happy I'm here –" she started in a resigned tone.  
"All I ask of you is honesty. Don't fool me… Don't lie to me. You have to admit you owe me that much, Erik." She was proud of her serious tone. Indeed, Madame Giry would have been proud of her.

He stood by the window, looking at the setting sun. His fascination with light had always made her wonder how a man like him had lived for so long underground. Was he content now? The light was fading rapidly. The shadows in the room grew longer. He turned and locked his eyes with hers for just a moment, though it felt like hours. His glowing eyes looked as if they had absorbed all the sunset colors. Was he aware of the beauty of his strange eyes? She watched the way he furrowed his brows to hide them; he obviously wasn't. There were so many things wise, intelligent, masterful Erik knew nothing about.

"Honesty…I think I can do that," he said after a while, before turning his gaze to the Twin House, visible from her room.

"Tell me about the Twin House," she requested as she sat on her bed again, her elbow on her knee, her head resting on her hand.

"There's not much to tell," he said guardedly.

"I know you renovate it and you have a beautiful rose garden there," she hastily added, not wanting to drive him away, making a mental note to learn more about it. "How does it look?"

"It's what they call 'one man's dream, another man's nightmare,'" he chuckled, relaxing. "It has two large, despicable wings that managed to turn an ordinary English cottage into a monumental, architectural monstrosity! I thought of tearing them down, but I couldn't handle the unwanted attention. They would hardly forgive me for trifling with one of the two infamous buildings in the area." His voice faded. Clearly he didn't want to bring the "ghosts" into the picture. Christine wasn't foolish enough to risk his leaving.

"It looks like the Red Door Cottage?"

"The façade is almost identical, larger in scale, though. Ivy-covered walls, elm beams and floorboards, oak doors and window frames," he said as his hand cupped the upper window frame. "Nothing special except the former owner's ambitious plans for a wealthy house and a large family –" Once more, he stopped, stealing a guilty glance at her over his shoulder. She pretended to brush out the wrinkles of her dress. Thank God, pity was a feeling Erik hardly appreciated receiving or lavishing on other people. Christine felt she had had all the pity she could handle in a lifetime over the last few years.

"And the garden?"

"Nothing but a greenhouse between the wings."

"Emily says you experiment with red roses –"

"Emily puts her faith in nature. I, on the other hand, have every reason to be distrustful or disloyal," he said with a hint of sarcasm.

She smiled at his words. She knew all too well how it felt when your own nature, your own body betrayed you. She had had a taste of this kind of betrayal.

"May I see your garden?"

"Maybe, some day."

She was getting tired of his frustrating tone. "Why do you want me to leave?" she asked, irritated.

The frown shadowing his brow grew deeper. "I've never said that –" His voice faded as he looked at her, confused.

"Even your dog can't stand me. For everyone else, he's a true beggar… but whenever _I _step into a room, he leaves or stays as far away as he possibly can," Christine muttered under her breath, pursing her lips into a pout.

Erik raised his brow and flashed a devilish half-smile, looking at his boots.

"What's wrong? Is it something I do?" she asked, seeing his expression. He looked so much like Jamie at that moment.

He tapped his fingers on the windowsill as if trying to find the rights words.

"It's not something you _do_… it's the way you smell –" The devilish smile was still lingering on his face.

"I _smell_?" Christine's voice sounded more like a squeak.

"Not an ugly smell, not a gingery smell!" he chuckled, looking at her expression, and she could hardly blame him. "It's lavender. Blue can't stand it! I happened to notice it years ago. There are some rooms he never enters. He rubs at his face, his nose, he sneezes… it would be quite funny, actually, if it weren't so disturbing for the poor soul. For Blue's sake, lavender was exiled from this house!"

"Why hasn't Emily told me anything about it?"

"Well, she doesn't know, I guess. She never used lavender, so –" His face got serious again. He had probably guessed what her next question would be. His guessing her thoughts was really frustrating, especially when it didn't work both ways. So she shouldn't ask which were the lavender-scented rooms.

"What about Jamie?" She changed the subject.

"What about him?"

"He seems so withdrawn. Does he like me?" she asked doubtfully.

"James adores you! Give him time to feel comfortable around you –"

"Any secrets I should know?" She looked at him, only to meet again the familiar, expressionless look all over his face.

This was interesting! It seemed there was a way to read him after all. Not read his thoughts maybe, but surely a way to navigate through what was allowed to be mentioned and what was forbidden to ask. So many vivid expressions on only half a face! She quickly averted her thoughts from the rest of his face. It was so strange that the image was so vague and blurry. After so long, she could hardly describe it.

"Any 'avoid lavender' types of advice?" she asked lightly. She was awarded a faint smile.

"Well, 'tall' is not a word lightly used in this house. It is a painful matter for James. He claims to be the shortest boy of his age in the village. I doubt it, but I'm not sure, either. I'm not worried, though. With proper nutrition –" he said more to himself. "Do you think I should worry?" Erik asked her pensively with a troubled expression on his face.

Christine smiled at him reassuringly when the realization hit her. Erik loved Jamie. He didn't only care for him as a mentor cares for his student. He didn't see in Jamie just the boy who looked upon him with respect and awe. Erik loved him as a father loves his son, as a parent worries for his child's happiness and comfort. How strange was that? Life had granted Erik a son while she was a childless mother.

"You love Jamie. You love him the way a father loves his son." It almost sounded like an accusation, even to her ears.

Erik threw a look over his shoulder, clearly to estimate her sanity.

"From what I've heard, James already has a freakish stepfather. I won't bid for the position, regardless of the possibilities of winning." His tone was cold and cynical.

This use of sarcasm as a defense irritated her the most. "Why are you so afraid to admit it, Erik? After all, it's a noble feeling."

"Why are you so unwilling to accept it, Christine? I'm through with feelings ruling my life, noble or low. I don't believe in feelings. There are reasons, needs, urges, instincts or character flaws behind every act or decision a person makes. People are used to justifying them, calling them _feelings_ believing they can do nothing about them, but it's all the same. Revenge, love, hate. Nonsense! Just an easy way to excuse losing control of yourself. That is nothing more than a masquerade I choose not to participate in anymore. I leave it to romantic ladies and gallant gentlemen, for I'm neither." His breathing was heavy and rapid. She could tell he could hardly control himself. Christine closed her eyes, at the edge of despair. If he wasn't able to acknowledge his feelings for Jamie, what were _her _chances?

"What do you call your relationship with Jamie, then?"

"Why should I call it anything other than what it really is? I admit James' services are essential to me. His assistance is of vital importance. He has made my life easier over the years. That shows no love!" He sounded exasperated by her unwillingness to understand. "That's only a sign of my failure, my incompetence in certain fields of everyday life, an incompetence I'm not proud of."

"And the lessons?"

"This is maddening, woman! It is the least I can do, since all the money he earns goes to his poor excuse of a mother! And before you read anything deeper and noble into my deeds – it's only boredom! What shall I do in this wretched place? Breed sheep and cows? Write music? For what? To play it and applaud myself, my genius? An artist needs an audience, Christine! How difficult is this for you to comprehend? Boredom! Pure, clear, genuine, unbearable boredom! That was what always drove me to lessons!"

He was cruel. He was being deliberately cruel. How could he describe what they had had as a result of boredom? She could so easily have hated him at that moment. He was so mean! She took a good look at the man standing before her, the way he stood his ground, as if ready for a fight. His flushed face, the vein throbbing at his temple, his clenched fists, his glassy, haunted look, his chest rising as his breathing came hard and fast in his effort to compose himself. Suddenly, making him angry, outraging him even more, felt so right.

"Poor Erik, you are so blind! So unwilling to admit it even to yourself! You remind me of the fairy tale where the evil giant keeps his heart on an island for no one to find it," Christine said with a satisfied smile on her face. She was almost impressed with the coldness dripping from her own voice.

"I've read such fairy tales. On an island, in a box, in a drawer, at the bottom of the sea…" Erik's voice faded as his eyes locked on something Christine couldn't see. She tried to follow his gaze, but saw nothing more than the usual view of the Twin House. His fingers seemed to trace something under his shirt near his neck.

"No matter where it's hidden, there's always someone who finds the heart in the end," Christine concluded victoriously, with a hint of venom in her voice. The way he so easily excluded her from his thoughts was maddening.

"And breaks it?" His words were spoken with such sweetness that it broke her heart. A bitter, sad smile was all over his face. Once more he was the wise, composed Erik. She felt him slipping away like sand between her fingers. There hadn't been a point in her life when she felt more humiliated or ashamed of what she'd done to this man.

"It is survival we are talking about. Not fairy tale endings." He sounded so detached.

"I don't want to leave," she said, surrendering. Tears were tickling her eyes. She wouldn't be such a coward as to let them slip out. Taking a deep breath, she named her terms.  
"I won't leave!"

"You are free to do as you wish as long as you know it is your choice," he said flatly before heading to the door. She hated seeing him leave like this.

"Erik –" she grabbed his attention. "What is your favorite dessert?"

He stood for a while. Christine was deeply satisfied by his confused expression. She could almost see the wheels of his mind turning, trying to answer her question as he compared tastes and flavors.

"Cherry pie with vanilla cream," he said decisively.

A large grin formed on Christine's face. Maybe all this had not been a complete waste of time after all!

II II II II II II

"You will pay dearly for taking what was not yours. Staying hidden in the Red Door Cottage won't help the thieves or the sinners!" _What else is new? _Erik thought, shoving the note, along with the others, into the desk drawer, highly disappointed by the philosophical tone of the threat. He couldn't even count on the house ghosts for amusement anymore. Erik stretched his fingers and cracked his knuckles, making an ugly sound. If only he could release some of this tension on the piano keys. He pushed back the thought for when he'd be at the Twin House, as music and Christine under the same roof would be a dangerous combination for his peace of mind.

Even though this new Christine hardly reminded him of the idol of his old obsession, the mind played tricks of its own accord. Erik knew that better than anyone. It was as if the mannequin he had once made of her had come to life, but like all impostors, there was no real resemblance, no real life in it. Minnette was right. Christine, at times, was an empty shell, full of bitterness, hostility, and sadness. Although familiar feelings to him, witnessing them in a lively creature like her was rather uncanny and hurtful at the same time. He watched Christine's pain, but had no potion to heal her.

"I brought some warm cider and a piece of cake." Emily's voice startled him as she entered the library. "I swear I knocked," she said with a smile, leaving a tray with biscuits, cake, and cheese on his desk. "You skipped dinner last night…"

His gaze locked on Emily's face. She looked tired. Black circles ringed her eyes, rough lines on her young face. She also looked thinner.

"Are you feeling well?" he asked her, concern evident in his voice. "Christine told me you were sick early this week, but you don't seem quite recovered yet."

"There's nothing wrong, Erik. I haven't been myself lately." She hesitated, but she was obviously hiding something.

Maybe the "ghosts" were not so far away from the truth.  
Staying hidden in his library, he had lost track of what was happening in his house. _A coward's act_, Erik thought, but quickly removed the thought from his mind.  
In front of him was a distressed woman who was obviously bothered by something, and knowing Emily's easygoing disposition, that _something _couldn't be anything small or petty.

"Take a seat. Take a biscuit, if you like. You look as though you have lost weight."

Emily sank gracelessly onto the seat in front of his desk, looking smaller, younger than she really was.

"Erik, I have to leave the Red Door Cottage."

Erik raised his brow in question. "Is something wrong with your aunt in Criccieth again? Has she gotten worse?" he asked seriously, sipping some cider. The warm liquid was like a balm for his throat.

"No, she's fine." Her voice broke, her eyes full of unshed tears. That startled him. Emily was not a weak woman, even though her slim frame didn't show it.

"But you are going to Wales…" Erik said after a while, trying to keep the irritation he felt out of his voice. Her silence was taxing his poor ability to show any patience.

"I'm leaving the Red Door Cottage," Emily said after a while with a trembling voice. "I have to quit my job here."

"Don't be ridiculous! Did Christine do something, say something –" He could almost see the scene in front of his eyes. As the days passed, Christine grew edgier, her temper like dry explosives near fire.

"Erik, I am expecting a child."


	16. Moments of Passion

I want to thank Desiree and especially TOWDNWTBN for their magnificent work. They are truly great and I am truly lucky. ;-)

Thank you all for reading! Your reviews are always a treat!

* * *

**Chapter 16- Moments of Passion**

Only lifelong practice in self-control kept Erik from looking like an absolute fool after hearing Emily's announcement. It seemed to require all his concentration, and he opened his mouth at least twice to ask a question, only to silence himself due to its idiocy or lack of propriety. Embarrassed, he couldn't control the color of his face as successfully as his mouth. He finished his cider in two large gulps, one after each attempt at speech.

"I'm expecting a child."

The words appeared to have a life of their own, and they seemed to echo in the room during the awkward silence. A third question formed as a ludicrous idea crossed Erik's mind, but once more, he chose not to ask it. Emily looked so weary, so tired, so distressed that it couldn't be one more farce of hers. He looked at the lines at the corners of her eyes, at her pursed lips, trying to assess the news. She had the most miserable look on her face, enough evidence that the whole situation was more a problem than a joyful event.

"Are you leaving to marry the father of your child?" The answer was sadly obvious, but Erik felt he had to ask, not wanting to insult her with hasty conclusions.

"Yes… eventually," Emily replied, and a dreamy smile appeared on her face.

Erik looked at her, speechless, trying to control his frown. The absurdity of such an answer could escape only a woman's mind. His practical way of thinking regarded "eventually" as too late while the smile on her face hardly agreed with his assumption.

"What are your plans for the _immediate _future, then?" His tone was one usually reserved for conversation with an imbecile, but he couldn't help it. The question seemed to inject some sense into her dreamlike state, as she furrowed her sandy-blonde brows.

"I'm not sure yet." She bit her lips but said no more.

"But you will go to your aunt –"

"No! I couldn't go there! No, that's out of the question," she said as though talking to herself. Erik stirred in his chair. He had read many books, and he doubted that idiocy or confusion were symptoms of pregnancy. However, he tried his best to be patient.

"Is the father aware of the news?"

"No," she paused, "but he will be… in time." The Sphinx must have been more talkative than Emily.

Erik felt his face getting red, not from embarrassment this time. He hated to be the voice of reason, and he barely held himself back from expressing the frustration her elusive answers provoked.

"Have you considered_ all _your options?" he asked guardedly.

Thankfully, Emily did not seem offended, shocked or scandalized.  
He would have felt completely low otherwise.

"I will have this baby." Clearly, the idea had crossed her mind.  
"I'm 30 years old, Erik. Women my age have children Jamie's age."

Erik remained silent. Maybe in normal people, this instinct for procreation was stronger, more demanding. Except for an insane period in the past that he hurriedly pushed out of his mind, he had never thought of having a child. Couldn't stand the guilt.

"Please, there is no reason for worries!" Emily said with a smile, probably noting his cloudy face. "Robbie will come for me. I know it! I have faith in him," she stated, but a hint of uncertainty laced her voice.

"Robbie is that Robert you've told me about? Your childhood friend is the father of your child?"

Emily nodded as tears sparkled in her eyes.

"Last time I went to Criccieth, he was there. We've talked. We thought we ought to give ourselves a second chance—" her voice trembled.

"Where is this Robert now?" Erik tried very hard to soften the cold tone in his voice, but without great success. He vividly recalled the rivers of tears the ballet rats had shed over unworthy lovers or misleading patrons.

"Why is trust so hard for men?" Emily's stare was almost accusing.

"Maybe because it is so easy for women." He raised his visible brow, feeling guilty as he watched her face gradually blush with embarrassment and shame. He didn't want to upset her. She had nothing to feel ashamed of.

"Robert cares for me!"

"I'm sure he does." He was honest. Any man who did not appreciate Emily would be a fool. Unfortunately, the world was full of them. He trusted Emily's judgment, but when the heart ruled, reason was so effortlessly silenced. He looked at Emily's faint smile, her tired hazel eyes. In the afternoon light, her long hair had the color of straw. She was a beautiful woman. Life had never been easy on her, but she had wholeheartedly embraced it. "_Second chances are rare."_Her own words mocked her now. For once, his cynical self wasn't thrilled with its victory.

"What will you do?" he asked after a while in the most soothing tone he could muster.

"I will write to him. He's abroad now. He said he will be back when his trip is over. He'll have enough money for us to get married." Her smile was broader now. She sounded convinced of his good intentions. Erik couldn't help wondering why this Robert hadn't married her on the spot. If he had found love, he wouldn't have let it go.

"How long will his trip last?"

"At least eight months—" her voice trailed off. Obviously the math didn't suit her.

"And—?"

"The baby will have been born by then." She confirmed his calculations.

"What will you do till then?"

"I'll either go to Plymouth and wait for him in case his ship makes a stop for cargo or supplies, or I'll go to London… maybe I could find a job there. I have all my wages saved…"

Erik felt restrained sitting in his chair, hearing this nonsense. He paced the room and inhaled deeply before he could trust himself to speak.

"Exactly what kind of job do you hope to find in London or Plymouth, Emily? Do you know many households that would willingly hire a pregnant woman?" He noticed her chin quivering slightly. She was on the verge of tears again, but Erik didn't give her time to calm down this time.

"Do you have any idea what the future holds for women who can't find work in London? What other kind of _work _will be requested or even forced on you?" He was blunt and cruel, but wanted to shake some sense into her. "Do you wish to fulfill all your mother's grim predictions?"

Tears stormed down her face. She looked at him accusingly. Maybe she hadn't expected him to use that information against her. If she had been counting on it, she couldn't have been more wrong.

"I've always been lucky. I know I will be lucky now. I will find a good job." She sounded determined. Emily was a proud woman, too proud to change her mind so easily. "I'll work hard to prove myself. When they realize I'm with child, they will keep me—"

"If you are counting on a miscarriage, there are far more safe ways to accomplish it." He hated to do this to Emily. He didn't want to break her spirit. He just wanted her to face reality. He offered her his handkerchief and leaned against the desk.

"Can you honestly look me in the eyes and tell me you've never acted …out of passion, out of despair…foolishly maybe…and still would do it all over again, no matter what? …wouldn't change it for the world?" Her voice was trembling, but her stare never wavered, demanding honesty.

Erik looked at the blonde woman before him. She was beautiful, attractive in the eyes of every man looking for a mate, a wife, a companion. Did she honestly think they were in any way similar?

Passion? Despair? He had had his full share of these, but they were entwined with anguish, regret and, lately, guilt; he did not remember ever having had such hope that his passionate risks would be rewarded as Emily demonstrated. Even in his most unwavering moments of pure determination, when he had thought all he had ever wanted was almost in his grip, he had never been so hopeful, so reliant on faith or fortune. He had always planned for the inevitable rejection.

In a moment of clarity, Erik realized that, as _he_ had in the past, Emily had risked her whole world in a moment of passion…or maybe _for_ a moment of passion? Who cared?  
That moment of passion, that sweet promise of what the future held, no matter how futile it might seem, had never been granted to him. He had never had a taste of the victory he had been seeking, if only to cherish its memory after his doom.

Erik looked at Emily with respect. Women were far stronger than he had ever thought! She was willing to turn her world upside down, counting on luck and her belief that "everything happens for a reason." Erik could never believe in such a fatalistic notion. _He_preferred to be the reason everything happened. A faint, sly smile appeared on his face. Still, just for once, he wanted to witness how the one who dared it all won, how the one who risked everything, even against better judgment, was rewarded against all odds, expectations and social rules. He was determined to do everything in his power to make "luck" truly work for Emily's benefit this time. Emily was surely luckier than he'd ever been, but her luck was so fragile when she demonstrated such infuriating stubbornness.

"I doubt my former life's experiences in seeking passion would form a fortunate example for the outcome of your predicament," Erik said, unwilling to give more details about his wretched past. He had never had great chances, but Emily, with his help, could beat the Devil at his own game. His confident smile faded a little as he looked at the distressed woman before him. With her eyes locked on her hands as she kept fidgeting with his handkerchief, her mouth tightened, and Emily lowered her head in a grimace of mixed trepidation and shame. "Emily…" the soft tone of his voice made her look at him again. "Never think I'm judging you or …I'm not approving…" He was sincere.

"What am I supposed to do then?" Despair laced her voice.

Erik looked at her guiltily. Driving people to despair must have been another hidden trait of his! He wondered why the most obvious answer eluded her.

"Stay here, woman!" he exclaimed impatiently.

"I can't stay here! That is absolutely out of the question!" She shook her head to emphasize her determination. "That is unacceptable! That would be the worst thing I could do!"

"And why is that?" He raised his brow in disbelief.

"You don't know how it is out in the country. In a while, I won't be able to hide it."

His blank expression must have been enough indication of his inability to understand her point, as she waved her hands in a frustrated gesture.  
"People talk!" she said, exasperated, as if that would make everything clear.

"People sing, too. I fail to see why this is relevant –" he said in mock indifference.

"People in villages talk too much. I could never go back to Criccieth. I'd be disgraced. Father John –"

That was preposterous! Did she honestly think she could cross the boundaries without paying the price?

"Emily, think what you're saying! You are willing to risk your life and the life of your child because of peasants' talk and Father John?" He hoped he had managed to conceal the scorn in his voice.

"I come from a peasant family—" She frowned, her blonde brow betraying her aggravation at his tone.

"Spare me the class lecture! Even if you came from the royal family, it would be the same, if not worse. Unless you're willing to decide wisely, you will bring a very gloomy fate upon yourself that no amount of luck will be able to alter."

"Jamie's mother had to marry his stepfather while pregnant just to be allowed to keep her own father's grocery store. They say the worst things of this man…dreadful things." She paused, a grimace of horror and disgust on her face. "Yet no one questions the prudence of this marriage. They consider her lucky he married her. You haven't seen their eyes when they look at her…their contempt…" Her eyes widened in horror.

Erik wondered what Emily, James, or the rest of the people in the village would think if they knew about him or his past. Emily was talking about a dreadful man to another man who was surely a hundred times more dreadful. The irony of this brought a sardonic smile to his face. All we don't know can't really hurt us!

"You can stay in the Red Door Cottage and never set foot in the village—"

"How can you not see what will happen?" she interrupted him, frustrated. "I couldn't do this…to you." Her eyes looked at him, pleading with him to understand what she implied.

Erik opened his mouth to ask a question, but decided against it as the realization hit him. Emily's worry for his good name was ridiculous, but moving.

"You will be everyone's first guess," she stated in a gloomy manner.

"We couldn't have that! It would ruin my social life!" he replied sarcastically.

"You don't know how they are…they will make our lives difficult."

"Don't overreact, Emily. I think I have an idea what being an outcast feels like."  
Her blushing face was indication enough that he had made his point. "I would never claim it is going to be easy for you, but I will try to make it easier." Her resigned, hopeful stare was piercing his very soul. Children should bring joy, not the type of trouble and despair his own birth had brought.  
"You will give me Robert's name, the name of his ship, whatever details you know of his trip, and my solicitor in London will try to contact him at some port."

"Do you think…?" A faint smile softened her eyes.

"I will be honest with you. I have no great hopes, but we must cover every angle.  
We will have to make up a story. We could even say you will go and marry Robert in Plymouth…and then come back here until he returns…"

"But no one will ever believe—"

"We don't care what they believe! We care about what they will dare to doubt. And we will give them no reason for doubt. After all, Robert will be back and everything will be crystal clear." He added that to ease her worries. It was inevitable that people would gossip, but who cared what they said as long they didn't dare to insult Emily? Still, they had to focus on details: a couple of letters from Robert, a decent ring after a carefully planned fake trip to Plymouth…no one had to know.  
"Who else knows of this pregnancy?" His voice trembled and faded as the blood drained from his face. How could he have forgotten Christine?

"No one. I myself found out just a few days ago. I couldn't believe…" Emily's mouth kept moving, but Erik heard no more words. His initial relief had quickly been replaced by concern and anger. Damn Minnette! If he only knew what to expect during the dreaded 25th of September! Christine was already puzzling him. Could her angry outbursts have been caused by her grief as the date approached? He paced the room as a plan formed in his mind.

"I need a favor, Emily," he said gravely.

"You need a favor… from me?" Emily asked, obviously confused by his behavior.

"Do not tell anyone of this. Especially, don't tell Christine!" He closed his eyes as he pressed his index finger to the bridge of his nose to ease the sudden pain. He recalled his futile promise to her only a week ago. Honesty would be so painful at the moment. If he could at least take some of the pain away… still, lying to her again, deceiving her again? A bitter smile formed on his face. That's what one got when trying to beat the Devil at his own game. No surprise there. No matter how hard he tried with Christine, he would never change. He looked at the puzzled woman before him, trying to find the right words to explain.  
"Christine's misfortune, I had mentioned before, had to do with her infant son's death…" He heard Emily inhale sharply. He avoided the word "miscarriage," not wishing to scare the woman. "Her child died on the 25th of September, three years ago." He paused. "It might be wiser for you to stay for some days at the Twin House and come back after the 25th."

"But what shall we say?"

"We could speed things up a little. You will say you're going to visit your aunt again or someone who no one from the village knows. We will hire Mrs. Oliveer's cart, saying that James will take you to Swindon where you'll meet the diligence, but you will both come back to the Twin House. James will be the only one to know. He will bring you food and supplies. You'll stay there ten days, two weeks at the most! Then we will arrange for him to supposedly escort you back from Swindon with his mother's cart, but now as a newlywed woman. You will make a stop at the village, of course, for everyone to hear the news. We'll have a story ready and a ring, no doubt…" He was speaking more to himself, making mental notes about the details, satisfied they could succeed at both goals at the same time. In less than a month, Emily would be a "married" woman.

"You are a good, wise man, Erik." Emily's soft voice interrupted his thoughts.

"I won't object to 'wise,'" he commented lightly with a smirk.

"I mean it. You are a good, kind man." Her tone was serious as tears welled in her eyes.

Erik remained silent so she would calm down. He couldn't help realizing that Emily had been overemotional lately over trivial things. Her absence would no doubt make _his _life easier.

"Perhaps if you could believe it yourself…that you are a good, worthy man…" Emily said, more composed after a while.

"Many would offer more than a simple objection to that," he commented, trying to keep the conversation light. If Emily knew what kind of man was giving shelter to her and her unborn child, she would probably run all the way to London!

"I only judge by what I see."

"Sight can be deceiving. Make no mistake. I'm no such thing…" His voice was raw.

"You've been nothing but kind to me and James."

Erik walked towards the window and held his hands behind his back, one cradled in the other, looking out over the lake. The soft rain created small circles on its green surface.

"It seems English weather suits me better," he commented sarcastically. "After all, I doubt there is such a thing as a 'good man,'" he added matter-of-factly.

"You don't like people, do you?" Emily asked in a manner that reminded him of another question he had been asked three years ago. James had assumed he didn't like food, judging by the poor variety in his diet. It seemed so hard for normal people to comprehend that what he _liked_ was irrelevant. What he_ could _have was more important. What was the use of his liking people when people never liked him? Never even accepted him?

"When you don't have great expectations, there are fewer chances you'll be disillusioned."

The silence that followed was highly welcome. Erik could hear Emily's soft sniffling, but couldn't find the courage to look at the woman. Women's tears made him feel completely helpless.

"How on earth will I ever find a way to repay this?" Emily asked, her voice heavy with emotion.

"Consider it a reward for all the delicious pies…" Erik's voice trailed off as he saw the anger flash in her eyes. He shouldn't have underestimated the Celtic blood in her. Forcing himself to appear more serious in spite of the smile lingering on his face, he recalled some unpleasant memories of the past.

"Well, if you force me, I might make a request or two," he said in a wicked manner.

"What do you mean?" Emily raised her brow, questioning him.

"Nothing difficult!" he exclaimed. "No tears, for example, unless absolutely necessary," he said in a falsely serious tone.

Emily smiled at him but furrowed her brows, knowing there was more.

"Don't torture James this time." His voice was soft but serious.

"Me torturing the boy? What are you talking about? I've never done such thing!" she said as she stood up from her chair.

"Well, if my memory serves me right," he said in a mocking tone, "I don't want another round of what happened when you broke your wrist."

"This is not a serious conversation," Emily said, pretending to be offended by his words, but her smile showed Erik she knew exactly what he was talking about.

"And, Emily…" his voice stopped her as she was walking towards the door in a miserable attempt to look exasperated, "Feel free to bake as many ginger cookies as you like while staying at the _Twin House_."

"I can't! Not the way my stomach is lately…" she said, grimacing in disgust and placing her hand on the offending organ. "I get sick at any strong flavor. I think I'll never eat ginger again!"

A devilish half smile appeared on Erik's face as he said, more to himself, "Exactly what I'm counting on!"


	17. To Breathe Life into a Stone

Hello, everyone! I hope you are having a nice Monday.

Thank you for giving a chance to this story.

More than usual I want to thank TOWDNWTBN for her hard work and Desiree of course! I wouldn't be able to do this without them.

Have a nice week…

* * *

**Chapter 17- To Breathe Life into a Stone **

I have seen a medicine  
That's able to breathe life into a stone,  
Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary  
With spritely fire and motion, whose simple touch  
Is powerful to arise King Pippen, nay,  
To give great Charlemagne a pen in 's hand  
And write to her a love-line.

_All's Well That Ends Well _

Erik looked at James' essay in front of him for what seemed like the thousandth time. Something about Greek mythology, he figured, but words seemed to escape him. James had developed an obsession with Greek mythology and Aesop's fables. His essays were filled with nymphs, naughty gods and people who usually were punished for their insolent behavior. If it wasn't that, it would be foxes, lions, or eagles. Erik pressed his exposed temple and the base of his nose, trying to guide the pain away from its familiar places. Headache seemed to be his constant companion these days.

Oblivious to the real reason for Emily's absence, Christine was doing her best to fill in for her duties, but that only resulted in his seeing her more often. Just for an hour, Erik wished he could turn off his mind, and think no more. He felt so tired that he could have slept right there with the Prometheus essay in his hands; this whole situation was eating his liver day by day without any gain other than discomfort and distress. No fire to warm and light his life, no way out of this predicament. His eyelids closed for a while as he left the essay lying on his knee.

II II II

She didn't bother to knock before opening the door of his bedroom. She didn't even bother to be surprised it was unlocked. He had so thoroughly frightened everyone who dared knock on his door that he didn't even bother locking it any more. She felt her blood boil – no need for silly proprieties now. If he had lied to her again…

For mere seconds, she was taken aback by the sight. Erik was propped against the bed's headboard, his legs drawn up into a makeshift desk, an arm draped casually over his head. He was dressed casually, his cream white shirt's sleeves rolled up, looking like any other man resting after a long, tiring day. No coffin, no other familiar morbid details decorating his room. All she could see of his face was his mask. The stubble on his chin contrasted with his white mask, making him look wild. Christine realized she had never seen him unshaven before. It was strange to think of Erik shaving. She pushed back that thought for later as her eyes locked on the piece of parchment he held at an awkward angle. A letter, maybe? Was he so focused on reading it that he hadn't even heard her? She knew he'd be furious to see her there, but she had counted on that. Enraging him might force some truth out of his lips for a change. Christine took a deep breath and closed the door behind her with a harsh thud.

"What the hell?" Erik exclaimed in anger, his voice raw. He drew himself up gracefully, his hand leaving the parchment and securing his mask. With a fluid movement, he picked up a robe; the silk fabric swirled around him, dressing him in black. If he had done it to cover his exposed chest, he had hardly succeeded, as the robe hung loosely over his half-open poet's shirt. Christine watched him blink as if not believing she was standing there, in his bedroom, in the middle of the night. A satisfied smirk formed on her face. "Let's see how it feels to surprise the Phantom," she thought wildly. She knew that under that composed Erik living peacefully in the English countryside, a Phantom lurked.  
She didn't care what life he had made for himself, she didn't care what he told other people. She had seen his soul naked, she had come after him. The least she deserved was the truth.

II II II

Christine was looking at him with a wild look in her eyes. For a second, he thought the house was on fire or something else similarly crucial, but the anger lingering in her eyes was enough to send such thoughts away.

"I came to talk about Emily," she said gravely.

Erik looked at her standing there, her hair free of the hateful braids, her chestnut curls framing her flushed, angry face, her modest chemise trapping the light, illuminating every detail of her body. All of a sudden, he felt the urge to run his fingers through the loose hair falling down her back, test its silkiness. He had done it before. The memory of the feeling tickled his fingertips. He clenched his hand in a fist to send the sensation away.

Was she so innocent coming into his room in the middle of the night dressed like that?  
He dismissed the thought with a frown. Having a rotting piece of meat for a face could hardly qualify him as a man in her eyes. He felt his ire rising just thinking of it.

"Where's your mind, woman, entering my room like this?" he asked, trying to control his voice.

"Are you afraid I might have caught you naked? I guess there is nothing I haven't seen before," she said coldly.

"Indeed!" Erik noted sarcastically, managing to hide his shock at her cynical tone. He raised his brow and looked at her for a good while, satisfied to see her finally avert her eyes. "You should be afraid you might have seen me unmasked. That is surely more horrifying than a naked man!" he retorted and watched her lose some of the color in her cheeks. He smirked at her paleness. How could she think she could beat him at his game?

"I want to know what happened to Emily," she said after a while. "I want to know where she is, and I want _you _to be the one to tell me."

"This theatrical entrance was made for Emily's sake?" He tilted his head, a mocking smile all over his face. "Don't you agree that tomorrow might be a better time for such a discussion?" He waved his hand in a gesture of elegant but weary dismissal. He watched her face turn red with frustration. He noticed the way the blush of her cheeks complemented the color of her eyes, which sparkled with fury. He wondered where that thought had come from.

"You can't fool me! I see what you're doing. _We_are your orchestra now. You treat us like instruments, composing your music with our lives. Mine, Emily's, James'; not that you haven't done it before." Venom dripped from every word she said. His face turned red with a mixture of rising anger and stunned awe. Dressed like that, her wild curls dancing around her face and her neck, her burning eyes locked on him relentlessly, she looked more like a maenad than the insecure woman who had claimed to love him only a few weeks ago.

"How can you say that, Madame?" He spat the last word in her face like an insult. Why did this woman always manage to bring out the worst in him? "Have I, in any way, mistreated you since you came to my house, uninvited? Or is it too difficult for you to take over Emily's place in the household? If my memory serves me right, when you came, you claimed you wanted to work and _earn _your living. Wasn't that true?"

"Why did Emily leave?" she asked in a cruel tone, taking in some hasty deep breaths to compose herself. He averted his eyes from her distracting figure.

"Due to personal reasons, I assure you. I haven't fired her, so she will be back, in time. Is there anything else you need to know, or is your love for gossip satisfied yet?" Another insult, he hoped, would drive her away. The last thing he needed was a thorough discussion about Emily. He let his eyes savor the sight of her. How many years had passed since the last time he had seen her hair down? He brushed his hand over his mask. It wasn't the time or the place to let memories cloud his mind.

Her cold voice brought him back to an unwanted reality.  
"Emily is my friend, and I care for her. I don't gossip!" Her voice was flat.

Erik sighed. Stubborn woman! She wouldn't let go. Didn't she know she would only hurt herself? How many lessons were needed before she learned her curiosity would be her undoing? His rage was gone, but his annoyance remained.

"Is Emily expecting _your _child? That's why you have sent her to the Twin House? To hide her till she gives birth to your child?"

Erik stood there looking at her, speechless. Did she really believe Emily was carrying his child? Unbelievable to begin with…

"Don't look so surprised! It wouldn't take a genius to recognize the signs!"

He felt his face getting warmer. He had missed the symptoms she talked about. He sighed in defeat. The charade had been in vain!

"Don't look so guilty, Erik. The Twin House was an excellent choice. No one from the village dares to approach, and I'd have never found out if I hadn't made Jamie's bed. He's gone to his mother for the night, and I had a clear view of the cottage. A rather enlightening view! I guess you missed that small detail. What are you planning to do? Or should I use the word 'plotting'? It may be more fitting."

"I believe, my dear," he said mockingly, "I've come to a conclusion: I find stupidity extremely annoying! Almost as annoying as curiosity," he added with a tone of fake indifference. She continued to look him straight in the eyes. Was she unafraid of his anger? That was an interesting twist.

"Take a look at the Twin House, Erik! There was light there less than five minutes ago!"  
Her curls brushed his arm as she furiously passed him to see out of the window. There was nothing there, only deep darkness. She looked back at him, disappointed.

"What have you done to Emily?"

The question hit him harder than any physical blow could ever have.

"Do you honestly think I'd force myself on Emily, on any woman, for that matter?" he asked in a slow, icy-cold manner that contrasted with the intense, wild look on his face. His heart was beating hard against his chest, and he felt his face grow hot with anger. Was that what she thought of him? Capable of hurting Emily? In that despicable manner? "No, Madame. For a woman to share my bed…" he growled in despair, trying to find the right words – "she has to want me as much as I want her!" he hissed, wounded pride lacing his voice.

"I've never said-" Christine seemed at a loss for words. "You have_ ways _to be seductive."

"Have I ever forced _you _into anything of _that _nature?" Erik asked, his voice dripping raw, barely controlled anger. "You know that if I had wanted to, I surely had the chance."

Her face went pale as a sheet as she shook her head in denial. Her wide eyes looked at him, filled with a pain that took him aback. Erik watched the different feelings playing across her face. Anger, intense pain, guilt, shame? His penetrating gaze locked with hers as he tried to find the cause for these feelings, but his anger got the best of him.

"I have never implied you were anything but a gentleman," she said stiffly when the color returned to her cheeks.

"Then exactly what _are_ you implying? Do you honestly believe I'd send away the mother of my child? What purpose would that accomplish?" He moved away from her, struggling to maintain his composure. "Let me guess what your 'noble' mind must have thought…that I took advantage of the innocent Emily… the adult, attractive widow, Emily, to be precise, but compared to me, everyone is innocent and naïve!" He paced around the large room, feeling trapped, as if the room were getting smaller by the minute. "And now she is with child! So, I'm hiding her from the world for no one to know she is pregnant or – this must be the best part – for no one to see what my child will look like. Of course, this_ abomination _should be kept secret by all means… it is a familiar thought. Isn't it?"

She stared at him with an unreadable expression on her face, which had flushed anew. He took her silence as an indication he had guessed the truth. That made him even angrier, if possible. He approached her with long, elegant strides. His face was mere inches from hers, his eyes burning her with anguish, fury and despair.

"I would not abandon the woman who'd carry my child for the world!" He sighed deeply and ran his hand over his mask, devastated. He hadn't wanted to say that. He didn't have to excuse or explain his actions to this woman, but somehow he still needed to. A treacherous part of himself could not stand having her think the worst of him. Another part, an evil, sick part lurking in the shadows of his mind, spoke beyond his control. He didn't recognize the husky voice talking as his own. "Or is it you are afraid that after Emily, I will place my interest in the other woman in the house? Following _you _every step you take? Watching you… your every word, every whisper, every sigh?" He heard her sharp inhale. "Every blush, every small gesture?"

Her eyes widened, offering him the perfect view of their violet color. Her face and neck turned a different shade of red, a shade that anger hadn't achieved yet. But he was more stunned than she was. This stiff, secretive, bold woman wasn't_ his _Christine. He hadn't these kinds of feelings for her. He cared for her as he cared for Emily, for James. This voice wasn't his voice. He looked at her in puzzled confusion. He was losing control, and he didn't like it. How could he betray himself like that?

"I've never…That's insane!" Christine exclaimed desperately.

"That's me! Insane, demented Erik! Remember?" A cynical, wicked smirk contorted his face. "And I'd rather die than beg again!" he said with a resolution that brought calmness into his soul. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising, drawing a breath that let him take control of his clouded mind.

He watched her trembling hand rising slowly before he felt it cupping his unmarred cheek. Her warm, delicate fingers stroked his unblemished flesh, playing with his whiskers. Unwillingly, he leaned into her touch. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and savor the moment, just as he had done once before. He opened his half-closed eyes at the sudden memory. Grabbing her other hand, he placed it firmly on his mask, pressing it with his palm, looking at her surprised face.

"Do you want a fresh look, Christine? Let's do that and get it over with once and for all." He dared her to take off the mask as she had before and smiled, witnessing her panic. She looked as if she was trying to estimate what the proper reaction to his challenge should be. There was no way to guess. Even he didn't know. The only thing he knew was that he was mad for letting her into his life again. He let her hands fall.

His eyes rested on the chestnut clouds of her hair. The waves of her curls formed the only sea he ever wanted to sail. Her curves, so clear under her modest nightgown, the only land he ever wanted to explore. He tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, allowing his cold fingers to linger a while longer than necessary on her swan neck.

"We shared so much, Erik. Dreams, guilt, horror, music, stories…why not love?"  
Her sweet voice caressed him. Her violet eyes were full of promises. His promised land was in his hands. So trusting! So willing to love!

He cupped her flushed face with trembling hands, amazed by his own boldness. At the moment, there was nothing he craved more than to bury his face in her hair, to smell the scent of roses. No lavender anymore! He half smiled at the thought, letting a strand curl around his finger. The perfect ring!

"My dear Christine…my sweet Helena…do you honestly think you could 'breathe life into a stone'?"

He watched her furrow her perfect brow in confusion. Her rosy lips showed determination and hope._ His _Christine had been transformed into this woman offering him love. He breathed deeply, not allowing the air to come out of his chest. If he could only hold this moment as he held her scent in his lungs… could he steal these moments of passion Emily had never regretted? Would he regret them, their bittersweet taste? He sighed. He didn't know the woman who claimed she loved him. He didn't know why she was at his house or what she had run away from. Yet she claimed to love him.

Who would be the object of her affection? Her Angel of Music? The Phantom? Poor, unfortunate, pathetic Erik who had been granted a kiss on his misshapen face before she left to pursue happiness? The man who had been more feared in Persia than Death? Was she really strong enough to endure the horror? And who had she found at the Red Door Cottage? Nothing but a defeated man.

Erik had long ago come to terms with his fate, his true nature. Was he able, willing or brave enough to share it with another human being? And what kind of love did she offer?  
Her wish for them to be "the way they had been" took the breath out of his lungs. What did she expect? Reading books, sharing tea and long walks in the countryside? Nothing was the same this time. His own dreams were not bright enough to blind him or force him to compromise.  
This time, if he couldn't have it all, he wanted nothing at all!

Not caring to be gentle, he grabbed Christine by the arms and forced her to turn towards the window. She turned her face, startled, trying to look him in the eyes, but that was exactly what he wanted to avoid. He stood right behind her, towering over her with his hands on her shoulders.

"What do you see, Christine?" he asked her, anger lingering in his voice. "There's nothing there. Only darkness," he whispered into her ear when no answer came. "Do you know why I chose this room in the first place? Exactly because there is no view of the Twin House! I wanted some sleep at night." A satisfied smirk formed on his face at her confused look, mirrored in the glass.

She tried to escape his strong grip, but he slammed her against him, keeping her in place. His hold on her got tighter as he felt her back leaning against his chest. He watched her eyes seek his eyes in the glass. He smiled at her futile attempt. Instead, he moved some unruly curls and bent his head, whispering straight into her ear with the sweetest tone he could muster.

"Do you think it is safe here? Do you think you are not in danger? This is nothing but a prison, Christine. No matter whether it is above ground." He felt her shudder at his words. "Do you see the lake? So many secrets lurking in its waters… just like our lake underground. Remember?  
You were always afraid of it… attracted to it at the same time." He met her eyes. She remembered.  
"I'm not capable of love, Christine. Don't fool _yourself_ this time. I can not feel it. Possession…yes, I know what possession feels like…" His hands slid to her waist. He pulled her tightly against him, crushing her curls against his chest, bringing her closer to him. "The need to possess the one who is your only master…I've felt the burning fire, but this is not love." He leaned his temple against her head, surrendering.  
"I don't hurt anyone here, not anymore. Is it too much to ask to be left alone?"

Surprised, he felt her warm hand pressing his own cold one, which was resting on her stomach. He raised his head, looking at her reflection in the window glass. Her eyelids grew heavy as she leaned against him for support.

"What do you seek, Christine? There is no Raoul to save this time. No miserable Erik desperately begging for love. Who do you wish to save this time?"

"Maybe I need to save myself… maybe I'm the one who needs to be saved." Her voice, her resigned tone made his voice sound stiff and cold even to his own ears.

"Are you willing to risk your newfound freedom? For what?" He smirked at her startled expression. "What do you think you have found here? A family? James is nothing more than a rejected boy who counts the days till he turns sixteen and leaves this wretched place to see the world… and Emily is only a woman who lost her love, and now she's foolishly…bravely risking her life for another chance –" He paused, seeing her flinch at the name _Emily_, the reason for her midnight visit.  
She twisted in his arms, trying to face him. A shocked look on her face ignited the blush on her cheeks, turning them the deepest shade of red.

"Well, what did you expect? After all, in some aspects, I'm nothing but a man," Erik said sarcastically, raising his visible brow. He raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, releasing her from his grip.

Her persistent blush and the look on her face, as if trying to solve the greatest riddle on earth, awakened his anger. He had let control out of his hands lately, and that was turning into a habit with no better result than humiliation.  
He walked to the door, opening it with fury, silently showing her the way out. This hellish night had to end.


	18. Building Castles in the Air

I seriously risk sounding repetitive and monotonous, but I want to thank all of you who read and keep reading this story! Your thoughts in your reviews are precious -not the "_My Precious!"_ type of "precious" but important and always enlightening. Keep them coming if you can…

I'll stop rambling and go on with the chapter...

Did you think I could forget? Desiree and TOWDNWTBN thank you for all your efforts and support!

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**Chapter 18-Building Castles in the Air**

On Erik's face was a smile, felt only by his pillow. He was dreaming. He felt the warm sunlight on his bare shoulders and chest. Such a bright sun, such glorious light was strange for this season. He was in that state between awareness and sleep where all that was needed was a small push to draw him back into dreams. He rolled onto his stomach, burying his marred face in the soft pillow, letting the cool air soothe his flushed skin.  
He closed his eyes to the harsh sunlight, not wanting to start the day. It was late noon, after all. As a matter of fact, he'd rather skip this day altogether. Staying in bed didn't seem like a bad idea. The coward's choice!

Soft music reached his ears. That wasn't strange. He heard music in his head all the time. His dreams were full of beautiful, powerful music waiting to be set free. Erik winced at an off-key sound that assaulted his senses. He furrowed his brows, unwilling to open his eyes, and threw a hand over his offended ear. This was a novelty! The music in his dreams had never been off key. The melody went on nicely after that, but there was an uncertain undertone that made his muscles tense. A note rang out more harshly than intended, making a discordant sound. The music stopped. This was no dream; this was not even a nightmare. Someone was playing his piano!

II II

A smile formed on Erik's face as he entered the piano room, holding a large tray in his hands. Christine was sitting on the floor before the hearth's dying fire. Looking at him, she pulled her legs closer to her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"What is so funny?" she asked, furrowing her brow.

Erik shrugged his shoulders. "James always sits on the floor-"

"It's not as if there is furniture in here," she commented before standing up.  
"What's there?"

"You could call it an 'Erik' tea. Not as good as an 'Emily' tea, but sufficient."

"There is everything here!" she said with a smile, seeing the large portions of food in the tray left on the desk.

"That is the main idea. It's a combination of dinner, breakfast, lunch and tea since we missed all of them."

He watched her taking a sandwich with a hungry look in her eyes. No sign of tears there. Maybe Minnette had been overreacting. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe Christine had come to terms with the 25th of September.  
Erik looked at the room. She was right. There was a desperate need of some furniture. One could only sit on the piano bench. His eyes locked on the way her lips moved. How pathetic was that? He felt his appetite vanish. Her hair was down as it had been the night before, when she had entered his room, enraged. She wore a simple dark blue dress, complementing her pale skin. No corset was needed for this kind of dress. He tried to abandon this line of thought, but not before he had wondered whether he could feel her waist under the fabric the way he had felt it last night through her chemise. He frowned, disgusted with himself and his lack of control.

"Did I disturb you?" she asked, sensing his changed mood, "with the music, I mean? I know I'm no good. I missed several notes…"

He moved towards the piano, putting some distance between them.

"Missing a note doesn't matter," he said, pressing a key. "Music is so much more than getting a note right. It's capturing the feeling, the need… the passion behind the notes, the purpose the particular combination serves." His voice trailed off as his eyes locked on the keys, a much safer image for the time being.

"Will you teach me?" Christine asked with a sweet, sincere smile on her face. She poured tea into a cup, blew some steam, and took a sip before placing it on its saucer. Heading towards him, obviously to offer him the cup, Erik felt his ire rising.

"Our teaching days are over, Christine. We've learned whatever lessons needed to be taught." His voice was raw. She handed him the tea, watching his knuckles turn white from his strong grip on the plate. Probably afraid he would break it, she placed her hand over his, supporting the small plate from beneath. He inhaled sharply. When would he get used to the touch of her hand?

"May I ask you something?" His voice was cold. He looked at her through narrowed eyes. "Did you share these serving habits…with your husband?"

Christine looked at him, confused by his hostility. "What do you mean? I've never dared to serve Raoul! I was always afraid I'd break something precious or spill something and embarrass myself. Philippe used to say servants should earn their living." There was a hint of contempt in her voice.

Erik felt his face grew hot with embarrassment at his foolish presumptions. His hand trembled, and some tea spilled onto the saucer. Her hand stroked his as a small chuckle escaped her lips.

"Exactly what I was afraid of," she confessed lightly.

His thumb stroked the rim of the cup where her lips had been mere seconds ago. Drinking from the same cup had become _their _ritual? Erik felt the room getting hot, and averted his eyes from the cup, fighting his usual impulse this time.

"Jamie told me you've stopped playing the piano since my arrival."

"I didn't want you to think I use music again…" his voice faded to a whisper as she slowly walked away from him.

"I always play music on a day like this. Poorly, but I do my best…" A faint smile brushed her face. "Especially this Persian lullaby you used to sing to me. I'm thinking of him… how old he would be now…what his first word would have been…probably 'maman.'"  
She cocked her head to one side. Her smile became brighter. "Would his cry have been melodious, like bells ringing, or irritating like squeezing a cat's tail?"

He looked at her smiling face, her sad eyes piercing his soul.

"His first toys, his hair, his eyes…have I told you I never saw his eyes? In my mind, he has yellow eyes."

Erik furrowed his brow, puzzled by her words.

"You see, my son was an outcast like you, like me," Christine said, sitting on the windowsill. Her eyes locked on the burgundy red carpet covering the polished floor. Its complicated motifs seemed to demand her full attention. He was surprised by the cynical tone of her voice when she finally talked.

"Do you think the Red Door will protect you from the unhappiness I bring to people?"

"I didn't name the house. If they'd known of my other names, they'd have known painting the door was in vain." There was no sarcasm in his voice. "What happened, Christine? What _really _happened?"

She looked at him through her long eyelashes.

"I don't know where to start…sometimes I think it wasn't me living my life. It felt as if I was out of my body, seeing myself. Funny how the mind works." She sighed. "I was greedy, I guess. I wanted it all. You, Raoul, my father's will served, safety - I wanted so much that I didn't know what I really wanted, what my own true wishes were. I tried to make everyone happy, but see what happened in the end… what was the gain?"

Failing to see how she had tried to make him happy, he felt himself getting angry again. "The gain? Don't you see a pattern here? Once more, you're running away from a man! Do you enjoy driving men to despair, Christine?" His voice was cruel, cold. He wanted to shake some sense into her. "What is the purpose of hiding from your husband?"

She averted her eyes from him. Silence filled the room.

"That's it, then. You want to punish him. What a perfect punishment it would be for him to find you here!" Bitterness laced his voice.

"Raoul will_ never _find me here." She was adamant. A cryptic, satisfied smile lingered on her face.

He remained silent, watching her mysterious expression change. "Sometimes I think my baby wanted to set me free…that's why he's gone. And that is the most selfish thought a mother can have," she said self-accusingly, guardedly.

Erik couldn't stand to hear the self-hatred in her voice or the silly reasons she found to hurt herself. Did she honestly think he would believe such nonsense?

"If you loved me, why didn't you stay with me?" He despised the despair he heard in his voice, the hurt. How could he believe the death of a child was what drove her to him? How could she believe that? It was a sick thought. He turned his back to her, facing the small fire in the hearth.

"I was too weak, too stupid to believe I could start a life away from you when you were with me all the time, every second, in every thought-"

"I'm sure there were moments you were _not _thinking of me." He looked her wildly out of the corner of his eye, jealousy evident in his voice. He didn't care! All the images that had been torturing him ever since her marriage filled his mind. Vivid images he thought he had exiled forever. He shut his eyes to the dying flames, trying to control himself and that bitter taste in his mouth, constant companion of his first year at the Red Door Cottage.

"It is your fault how I was back then-"

"My fault? That has to be a sick joke, my dear! My fault that you preferred to spend your _nights _with a handsome man instead of a freak of nature? A monster you were always afraid of? Maybe it is my fault for teaching you to appreciate beauty. I take all the credit for that! If I'd known better, I would have taught you that ugliness and monstrosity is what lightens our lives! I've been such an idiot!"

"Stop saying those things! You hurt me more than you hurt yourself! It is your fault I was so sheltered, living among fairy tales and dreams of a future so bright and shining that no one could ever destroy it."

"I wanted that for you! I would have turned the world upside down for you to have had whatever you wanted!" he exclaimed in despair. "You could have been a shining diva, the most brilliant opera singer throughout the world. I had written plays and songs just for your voice! No other singer would or could sing them after you."

"That is_ all _I was for you? Just a voice?" She sounded hurt. "That's why you guided my life away from all the other girls at the Opera? Never allowing me to have a friend other than you?"

"I kept you away from the ballet rats, away from having a 'friend,' as you have so well put it, to avoid your having the future _they _have now. What do you think is the fate of the nice face, the nice body of an opera dancer?" He smirked at her blush. "You could have had it all, Christine! Respect would have been the least of it! The whole world would have knelt before you, I would have seen to it!"

Her blush had turned into complete paleness.

"At what cost, Erik? I won't deny it. You gave me my soul. I didn't know where I started and where you ended. I felt you inside my every thought …your voice alone…but every drop of blood, every death, even every frightened stare I witnessed on their faces when your name was mentioned tore that soul apart. Don't you see? I was ashamed of my Angel; I was ashamed of myself! I thought I was blessed, and it had turned into a curse."

He heard her rapid breathing, her voice a barely audible whisper, and avoided looking at her.

"Even when I realized you had deceived me, that you were not my Angel, it didn't matter whether I was afraid of you… there was always a part of me that was thrilled. I couldn't sleep at nights, thinking of what the future held for me, secretly proud you picked me, chose _me_, but-"  
She let the silence complete her sentence. It was an eloquent silence. "It was the blood that made me leave you. It was the blood that sent me away."

He shuddered at her words, at the ugly picture which formed in front of his eyes. His knuckles whitened as his grip on the mantelpiece became tighter. She was right. Deep in his heart, he had always known it. Christine could never spend her life with a man like him. There was no mask to hide his dark soul. Turning his head, he stole a glance at the resigned look on her face.

Erik had never been foolish enough to believe it was only her voice driving him to her. Her voice, the way she had mourned her father, her lonely life in a strange, foreign country, were indeed what had drawn his attention. But when the sadness had subsided, and she took real interest in music, her true self began to bloom in front of his eyes. Her passionate nature tried to fill the songs she sang with emotion, emotion she usually knew nothing about. With his help and guidance, lovers' passion in songs, so unfamiliar and unknown to her, was replaced by her passion for life and all the gifts it brought to her.

During these years, Christine had looked at life through a colored glass that made anything possible, a glass _he_ had colored for her. Through Christine's glass, an orphaned chorus girl could transform into an opera singer and shine beyond comparison. He was the magician who could make that happen. For a while, he had been blinded by his own magic. He had seen his life through that kaleidoscopic glass, and had dared to dream that anything was possible. This was Christine's spell on him.

In a way, she was right. He was responsible for her fate. He had kept her out of the true world and its cruelties as he had kept himself underground. When she had had her first taste of that world, she had been so confused, so stunned. It had been so easy for the young vicomte to sweep her off her feet. So hard for him to compete. After all, in his fairy tale world, the only monster he had introduced her to had been himself. He shut his eyes to the thought.

"I believe there are windows in time, some points where our decisions can change the very course of our lives, leading us to happiness, maturity, or despair," Christine said with a sigh.

"I guess, in my case, this was the moment I was born."

"Don't mock me, Erik. My life wouldn't have been the same if my father hadn't died, if I hadn't met you, if I hadn't married Raoul or lost my child. Some of these events were forged by fate, others by choice. Right or wrong, but still choice. I believe the first real choice I made in my entire life, a choice _I_ made, thinking of _my _will, not pressed by circumstances, was leaving Raoul. Sometimes I think that my Jean Pierre was lucky to escape this world. What kind of mother would he have had?"

"Don't say that! You risked your life to save him."

"I was unworthy of him-"

"You would have been a perfect mother-"

"I wasn't! I'm not perfect! In any way…you were the only one who ever saw me as perfect. I'm not. So far from perfect…" Her voice was almost inaudible. Tears were threatening to escape, but she fought them. So many secrets in her glassy eyes. Guarded, unspoken secrets threatening to surface. They were eating her up inside.

"Christine, talk to me." He used the sweetest tone he could muster.

She averted her eyes, choking back a sob. She pressed her hand over her mouth as if trying to keep the words from escaping.

"I'm not a good person, Erik," she said matter-of-factly when she found her voice.

"Minnette couldn't help?" he asked, frustrated. He was in the dark. He couldn't stand this guilt in her eyes, this self-punishment she forced on herself.

"Poor Minnette! I gave her an awful time. I wasn't what she expected. She's warned you about today's date? It is so very like her. She tried her best, but couldn't help. How could she? Especially because she's a mother…Minnette looked at me with such pity and dread. Even thinking about it made the pain palpable for her. I guess every time she heard me talking about my son, she imagined her own daughter dying..." Christine took a deep breath. "No one can help me," she said gravely.

"Tell _me_!"

"I can't…you would hate me."

Erik stared at the horrified look in her eyes, her arms wrapped around her waist as if waiting for a sudden blow. He looked at this woman, a mere shadow of her true self.  
It was time to do something! Anything would be better than living in such pain. Maybe it was finally time to send all the ghosts away.

II II

Christine watched Erik close the heavy curtains, gradually blocking the sunlight from the room. He took off his jacket with hasty movements and threw it on the piano. The fine fabric produced a soft sound as it slid onto the black polished surface. Erik made music even when he didn't intend to. One by one, he lit the few candles in the room, and built a bright fire with the remaining logs. His face was a mask of sheer determination, of focused resolve to a cause so obvious to him but still hidden from her. The thought sent a shiver down her spine. Erik loved the light, but he ruled in the darkness.

Darkness enveloped them, creating shadows, caressing her with its familiar comfort. She saw him roll his sleeves up, looking at her, his intense stare trying to penetrate her thoughts. Christine wondered if he could hear the rapid beating of her heart from where he stood. She swallowed a breath. A dread filled her even though she wasn't afraid. Erik walked to the door, turned the key to the lock twice, and showed it to her, raising his hand in the air. For a moment, her eyes caught a glimpse of the other small key hanging from a leather string around his neck. So many secrets between them!

"We are not leaving this room until you tell me everything!" he said in a booming voice as he put the key in his waistcoat pocket. "Every small detail, every guilty feeling, everything. This is poisoning you, can't you see it? I won't let it happen."  
She felt herself trembling at the willpower and the care in his tone.

Panic filled her. She couldn't let _this _happen! He would be disgusted by her, by her weakness. She would lose him forever. She didn't care if she ever won his love again. She needed his respect, his approval. She needed the softness in his eyes whenever he looked at her. She couldn't risk that!

Christine looked at the door, at his waistcoat pocket, looked around the room, trying to find a way out. Her mind clouded with images she never wanted to share with him, with anyone. This was her choice. A choice he didn't respect, once more. She found refuge in anger. She wouldn't let him rule her life again.

"I have my ways of fighting!" she threatened him, her stare fixed on his mask.

"Do you think I care anymore? This ends today!"

His voice was the cold voice of the Phantom. Did he do it on purpose? She couldn't know. Panic and the old familiar desperate need to leave, to get free, got the best of her. Christine approached him, almost running into him, trying to take the key from his pocket. It was a futile attempt. If she had had her wits, she would have known. Deep down she knew, but she couldn't fight that frantic need to leave this room, to keep the words from slipping.

Christine fought him with all her strength. She let her nails fight for her. She slammed her fists into his chest, she tried to slap him, kick him, but he held her tightly, mostly trying to prevent her from hurting herself. She struggled and twisted in his arms as hysterical, nonsensical words escaped her mouth. She heard herself laughing, and it was like the madwoman's laughter, but she was satisfied. No coherent word would escape her mouth. She was still in control.

Christine fought till she couldn't stand any more. She collapsed against his chest and slid to the ground, taking him with her. She surrendered, defeated. There was something liberating in leaning against his strong body for support. Even her own body was a heavy burden for her, a burden she was tired of carrying. Only then did she allow the first tears to flow, but quickly controlled them again as she knew this was her weakest hour. This moment of surrender, when she was most vulnerable. Christine smiled against his shirt, hearing his voice. He sounded calm and soothing as if nothing had happened.

"Tell me, Christine." His voice, a sweet, reassuring whisper, calling her to comply, to open her heart to him. His hands stroked her hair in a gentle, comforting rhythm. When was the last time she had felt so safe? She nodded her head and rested it against his shoulder, feeling at home. She knew she had to give him something.

"Everything happened so quickly I didn't feel anything. I was numb. When I learned I was pregnant, we were in Italy for our honeymoon." She felt his muscles tense for a while, but soon, his hand continued stroking her hair.  
"When the doctor left me alone, I remember looking myself in the mirror. I missed you so much that moment. I missed all the times I rushed back from rehearsals, only to tell my Angel what had happened, my mistakes, my complaints. The spring sun was blinding me, but I felt cold and empty. I had never been more miserable in my life than this brief moment, bathed in the sun, standing barefoot in front of the mirror. The misery of my being suffocated me in this tiny fragment of time. I saw my reflection. It was as if my face was gradually fading in front of my eyes, as if I became colorless, like the people in the story you had told me. I truly felt my life was over. Everything others expected from me, everything I expected from myself in order to be a good daughter, a good wife, an honorable member of society had been fulfilled. I had nothing to expect. Even Philippe would be warmer towards me. I had fulfilled my purpose in life, and it felt so meaningless. This baby gave me no joy."

She let silence envelope them for a while, breathing his scent. She didn't want to leave the shelter of his strong arms, but this urgent need to escape was starting to fill her again. She tried to move away, but his grasp became tighter. His hand on her hair didn't feel soothing anymore. She wanted to be free.

"There is more."

That was all he said. Three words laced with care, concern and clear warning. How could she ever think she could deceive him? Her Angel was always in her mind. He probably already knew and just wanted to hear it from her. Tears welled up in her eyes. How long could she keep them from flowing? She felt so small, tiny…

"Please, Angel, don't make me say it. You will hate me. It hurts…and I don't want to hurt you…"

Erik shifted her in his arms, never letting her go from his embrace. She almost felt his lips against her skin as he whispered in her ear.

"Erik could never hate you, Christine. Even if you hate yourself,_ he_ will _never_ hate you, Christine. _My _Christine…you know that. You have always known that." He cradled her in his arms, never breaking the whisper's steady rhythm. "Tell Erik what makes your heart bleed. Erik is strong. You can't hurt him. Nothing can hurt him." It sounded like a strange prayer, a lullaby that made her feel lighter with each passing word. "Erik has seen so much, has done so much worse. That is why you came to him. Isn't it? You know he's strong. Nothing can hurt him. He will understand. Tell Erik what it is. Let him take your burden." His voice found its way into her mind, breaking every wall.

Word after word, she found it difficult to hold back, to restrain herself. Once again, she felt like diving into the abyss, into this world consisting only of the two of them. Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. In a strange way, she still had her wits. She knew she shouldn't speak, not utter a word. He would hate her. No more innocent Christine. He would never look at her the same way again, but surrendering to his voice felt so tempting. And his voice never stopped caressing her, entering her mind, penetrating her thoughts. "You want this, Christine. Tell your Angel." It was a sweet order, and she could do nothing but obey.

"I killed my baby." Her voice was flat. She didn't feel the familiar pain she felt whenever she heard it in her mind. Surprisingly, he still cradled her in his strong arms, his cold hand was still stroking her head, urging her to continue. The world was still turning.

"Everyone had been surprised I was expecting so soon. I, myself, was surprised, but Raoul's elation was contagious. Even Philippe was satisfied. Now, 'the greatest mistake his brother ever made,' as he had described our hasty marriage, would be useful.  
He didn't have children, not even from his out-of-marriage relationships. He was in desperate need of an heir to his title. 'How's mon petit Philippe?' he asked me every time we had tea in the parlor. My son's name had been pre-arranged. Not even his name was to be my choice. I often wished I'd have a girl, just to see their faces." Christine still felt the steady stroke on her hair. Suddenly, it was so easy to talk, so liberating.

"And then they didn't want him. Philippe didn't want his name given to the 'bastard.' She felt Erik's muscles tense, but she couldn't keep herself silent. Not anymore. "I'd gained weight rapidly. At times, I thought I was expecting twins. I was sick most of the time, staying in bed. I asked for another doctor. That fat, disgusting man was only capable of licking Philippe's shoes. They trusted him. He was the only one who wouldn't talk. Not a word would escape his mouth about the dancer Raoul married, the woman grieving her teacher's death, the Phantom's whore! That's what Raoul's sisters called me. Never to my face, never in front of Raoul. They loved him too much to 'state the obvious.' I was the Phantom's whore!

"Everything changed after your death. It was as if only your name, the thought of you alive was enough to keep me safe, to make me worth something. They were afraid of you. They were so afraid of you! So many hired men in watches just to let him sleep at night… Raoul had the first decent night's sleep the day he read the paper. He used to toss and turn, watching me when he thought I was asleep. At first, it was sweet. Soon, it tired both of us. He tried with all his might, but he was drained. Only after your death did he feel safe. That lasted so little time… the maids, those little sluts sleeping with Philippe… they couldn't keep their mouths shut. Always gossiping about what I did, what I read, what I wrote…I couldn't cry, or they would go to Raoul and tell him about it. He, then, would rush to check on me. To ask me why I was sad. To ask me not to be sad. I couldn't pretend. I couldn't handle so much pain, so much guilt…

"Poor Raoul, he hoped he'd finally have his wife, but it was worse than before. Everyone thought this grief was unnatural, strange at the very least. Not proper for sure, but there was something wicked, something sick in it. 'This isn't the grief of a student,' I once heard Philippe say to Raoul. 'This is the grief of a widow!' I wasn't eavesdropping. It seems everyone talked about me behind closed doors at the de Chagny estate. This just happened to take place behind a half-closed door. Raoul stood silent, looking at Philippe. No words came from his mouth, not a single word to defend me, to tell him to mind his own business. Nothing! I saw him sink into a chair, crying like a small boy, Philippe patting his shoulder. I stood there for a long time, watching them. For once, Philippe wasn't accusatory. He just stood by him, strong, unwavering.

"I wanted to leave! I wanted to leave the wretched place, the weak man…I had nowhere to go. I could hardly walk in that state. I shouldn't have walked at all, and there I was, packing some clothes, searching between books and inside purses to find some money. I felt a sharp pain that stopped me in my tracks, and then another even sharper pain made me kneel. They weren't labor pains. It was too soon. More than two months too soon. I managed to sit on my bed, lifted my feet with difficulty, and lay on my back. I crossed my hands on my chest, and the pain subsided till it totally passed.

"Then the thought crossed my mind, for the first time! I hated this baby! I had this 'petit Philippe' inside of me, keeping me caged in that gilded prison. My keeper, who would never set me free. He would make me love him and turn this love against me. I was sick with high fever for a week. I was in this dream-like state where fever makes everything look sharper. I thought I heard you, I thought I saw you. I called your name, asking my Angel to take me away.

"I don't exactly know when the labor pains began. The pain healed me in a way. I focused on the pain. It lasted for so long, but I had a plan. When the baby was born, I'd take him away from them and their sick minds. That was when I thought of Minnette. But I felt so tired. So exhausted. I remember feeling Raoul cry on my neck, thinking I was asleep or unconscious. I still hear his pained sobs in my ears. I still hear their voices. They thought I couldn't hear. Philippe's usual stern voice was nothing but a whisper.

"'What if it's deformed?' And then Raoul's silence, so loud, so unbearably loud! They had gone that far! Philippe, as always practical, tried to foresee all possibilities. It was Raoul's voice I heard next. Pained, resigned. 'Don't blame her. She's only a woman!' I was his wife, his woman! Philippe should have considered himself lucky, given the way the situation turned out. Choosing the mother over the child was a noble choice, so easy, so convenient when the child is a 'bastard.'"

She felt Erik pulling away from her, but only to have her sit before him on the carpet, giving him a clear view of her eyes. He kept holding both her hands, staring at her in doubt. His haunted look spoke volumes.

"But how? We never… didn't Raoul-"

"My poor Erik! Remember when you found me in France? When you asked me why I had left him, I told you you'd never understand. Whenever Philippe talked, Raoul's opinions vanished. An Opera girl has many ways to deceive a nobleman. Raoul's decision, his persistence in marrying me was the noblest act in the world! He hadn't only dared to face you. He had defied Philippe. He had stood his ground for what? For the Phantom's Whore!  
Even the servants called me that. My own maid said I had used magic - your magic - to seduce Raoul. She may be right, you know.  
If Raoul hadn't seen me as the diva you'd made me, who knows what would have happened? I'm not worthy of happiness, Erik. Where is my sparkling charm now? Where is my perfection?"

Erik placed his cold fingers on her lips to silence her.  
"Please, stop…I can take no more." His stare was sad but gentle. She saw no blame, no disgust there. Only deep, genuine sorrow. His yellow eyes warmed her heart with acceptance and care.

"Blame fate, blame Raoul, blame me…I don't care. Just stop blaming yourself, Christine!"

She raised her hand and stroked his arm where his shirt had a tear, probably from her nails. It was beyond repair. His waistcoat was a mess. Two buttons were missing. She traced the buttonholes on the brocade fabric with her fingers. The way they were sitting, on their knees, facing each other, reminded her of children playing. Maybe that was what they were doing. Building castles in the air had always been their favorite game.

"What did you see in me? Why did you choose me?" she asked, not expecting a real answer.

"You were in pain…I couldn't stand your pain."

"So it was only pity, then!"

"No! Never pity! I thought you would understand my pain-" He seemed honest.

"How can you say you don't love me?"

"When will you learn need is different from love?"

His voice was caressing her again. Christine nodded and sighed deeply. A smile formed on her face. She winced and licked her upper lip, tasting dried blood. She must have bitten it during her ridiculous fight. The touch of his cold fingers on it sent shivers down her spine. She closed her eyes, letting fresh tears run. Nothing could feel better than that, she thought. Nothing had prepared her for the way his cold lips would feel, touching her lip. Cold, soothing, a gentle touch, a sigh upon her lips. She didn't dare to open her eyes, afraid she'd break the spell, and was rewarded as his lips touched hers again, more boldly this time. She responded with her eyes shut, her heart pounding as she felt his warm tongue in her mouth. Erik's taste! A smoky and bitter hint of a taste of his favorite Russian tea combined with what was pure Erik.

All of a sudden, the kiss was broken, and he stood in a swift motion. She opened her eyes, only to catch the familiar habit of his, his hand running over his mask, securing it in place. Christine trembled, feeling cold and abandoned. She needed to feel him against her skin again, she needed to be close to him.

"Please," her voice broke, "sing for me," she pleaded.

He looked at her with an unreadable expression on his face. For a moment, she thought he'd leave. Instead, he sat on the piano bench. Christine hesitatingly sat beside him.  
No man played the piano as Erik did. No man could produce such bittersweet music with such a simple melody. It wasn't a combination of notes and chords. It was a landscape of sounds, hidden secrets, unspoken truths. All kinds of passionate emotions, no matter how hard he tried to persuade himself he was incapable of feeling them, danced around them as she rested her head against his arm. He didn't mind.

When he started to sing, his beautiful baritone was raw and hoarse.  
"Jan zatan burdi wa darjani hunooz;"

Tears clouded her vision. It was clear he hadn't sung in years. His voice was hers as hers belonged to him. He had felt it too.

"Dard-ha daadi wa darmani hunooz."

Many times in the past, he had sung Persian songs to her. Sometimes, he translated the lyrics, others he didn't, letting only the melody and the colors of his rich, powerful voice take her to another, gentler world.

"Aashkara seen-e am bashugaafti;"

From the frown of his brows, the determination of his expression when his fingers caressed the piano keys, she knew she shouldn't ask for the meaning of the lyrics he hardily sang.

"Hamchunan dar seen-pinhani hunooz.  
Ma za girya chun namak bagudakhtim;"

It was a mixture of narration and whispered confession that took her breath away.

"Tu bakhunda shukr afshani hunooz."

What had started as an angry cry for help, a desperate fury, a deep craving, ended as a pained whisper, a resigned despair, a tremulous hope. She didn't know how long they stayed sitting side by side in the darkened room. She didn't know when the sun set that day, or when his voice finally warmed up into its magical splendor. All she knew was that that day, music returned to the Red Door Cottage.

* * *

Jan zatan burdi wa darjani hunooz;  
Dard-ha daadi wa darmani hunooz.  
Aashkara seen-e am bashugaafti;  
Hamchunan dar seen-e pinhani hunooz.  
Ma za girya chun namak bagudakhtim;  
Tu bakhunda shukr afshani hunooz.

You carried the soul from (my) body – and yet,  
You are still in the soul;  
You have given pains – and are still the remedy;  
Openly you split my breast –  
Yet you are still hidden in my heart.  
You have destroyed the kingdom of my heart  
With the sword of coquetry,  
And are still a ruler in that place….  
(trans. A. Schimmel)  
_Amir Khusrau Dehlavi (1253-1325 AD)_


	19. To the Edge of Doom

Hello, everyone!

I hope you had a nice week and that an even better one will follow. We all need it!

This is one of my favorite chapters so if you like it drop a word. It's highly appreciated ;-)

I want to thank Desiree but especially TOWDNWTBN (The-One-Who-Does-Not-Wish-To-Be-Named) who did an exquisite work in this chapter. *Virtual applaud*

* * *

**Chapter 19- To the Edge of Doom**

Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
Admit impediments. Love is not love  
Which alters when it alteration finds,  
Or bends with the remover to remove:  
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark  
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  
It is the star to every wandering bark,  
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
Within his bending sickle's compass come:  
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
If this be error and upon me proved,  
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.  
_William Shakespeare _

Emily tasted the sauce and added a pinch of salt. Maybe a dash of pepper, definitely some fresh basil… there was a spice missing, but she couldn't put her finger on it! Morning sickness wasn't so troublesome anymore, and the week spent at the Twin House had been exactly what she had needed to relax and gather her thoughts. She had been surprised when she had seen Christine approaching the Twin House; after all, it had been the day following the anniversary of her son's death. Yet Christine had arrived to help Emily carry the few things she had brought with her, and to escort her back to the Red Door Cottage.

"You shouldn't be alone," was all the explanation Christine gave, but her broad smile was honest.

Emily had been moved by her genuine concern. She had never felt extremely comfortable around Christine, maybe because of her changing moods. Still, she looked calmer than ever. Obviously, Erik had informed her of her "predicament," and the Frenchwoman appeared absolutely convinced everything would end happily for her and Robert. Emily didn't know if she was simply trying to make her feel better, but Christine's good mood was at least inspiring.

"Erik will make a cradle for the baby. A masterpiece, no doubt, and Jamie will carve something on it. Don't be shy about asking for my help…for whatever comes to mind…not that I know a lot…" Christine had smiled with that bright smile of hers that lit the room. Emily had felt like crying, and she had cried. A lot and for a long time, and Christine had held her in her arms, patting her back as if she weren't the mature, grown-up, strong woman whose life was firmly in her own hands, but the frightened, excited girl who had left her house and her village years ago to build a life of her own. Only when she had taken a few breaths and tried to brush her tears away had she noticed that Christine was crying, too, but they were not tears of sadness or despair, like the ones Emily had shed alone those few days at the Twin House. They were tears of understanding and pure sympathy.

"Have you been upstairs?" Christine had asked in a conspiring tone, a mischievous smile lingering all over her face.

"I haven't dared," Emily had admitted miserably. It wasn't that she hadn't thought about it. "It feels like he's watching," she had added, whispering to excuse her lack of courage.

"Erik has a talent for that!" Christine had smiled at her knowingly, and the two women had left the Twin House quickly.

The Red Door Cottage was still the same, but, at the same time, everything was different. And what was even scarier was that, in an unsettling way, even Erik himself was different. Emily had been deeply surprised when she heard the piano playing all night long the first day of her return, and pleasantly shocked to find Christine asleep on a sofa in that very room the next day. The new sofa must have been brought from the attic, but it was small, and Christine, though covered with a warm blanket before a glorious fire, must have felt stiff at the very least.

However, Emily had never seen her happier or more contented than that morning, and when her usual sad mood had threatened to claim her, Christine had run to Erik. Just a look from him seemed enough to make her feel better, but it wasn't only a look she got from him. Once he had reprimanded Christine severely for her refusal to go to her bed the previous night, he had moved away from his desk, which he so often used as a barricade, and had sat on his armchair with a book in hand. Christine had sat on the floor near his legs, and he had started reading to her.

When Emily had brought them some tea, Christine's head was resting on his knee, and Emily had to concentrate very hard to actually listen to what he was reading. His voice was so soothing and alluring that it took her a while to comprehend it was _Othello_, the book Christine had been reading earlier. Emily had never read it, but was familiar with the story of the Moor of Venice who murdered his wife, blinded by his misguided jealousy. Emily had felt like sitting with them. They wouldn't have minded. Jamie was on the floor, too, carving a piece of wood. Suddenly, being alone had hurt so much, but she couldn't stay. She knew she had witnessed moments of intimacy only a couple shares with such ease, but they weren't a couple. At least not yet.

That was also obvious. It wasn't only the way every touch seemed different and claimed a different response, and there were plenty of touches, especially from Christine; it was the intense stares, the electrified silences and, of course, the music. Every night, from that day on, Erik would bid Christine good night, and she would hurry to her bedroom, leaving the door ajar to hear the music. Emily hadn't known music could be so subtly seductive, so intoxicating. No love songs were heard, no great confessions were made through notes and melodies, but everything sounded different, with an undertone of longing. Only early in the morning when Emily started her day did the music stop, and she would hear Erik's light footsteps entering his room after the briefest stop to close Christine's door.

The bell to the front gate dragged Emily out of her reverie. Her heartbeat quickened, and she hastily hid behind the kitchen door. For everyone in the village, she was still in Plymouth. Jamie's hurried steps from the library to the gate gave her the assurance she needed. Erik had everything under control.

Not long after the bell had rung, a hearty masculine laugh echoed all the way from the hall to the kitchen. Reassured that since Erik had allowed the man to enter the house, he couldn't be a threat to their plan, Emily allowed herself to steal a look at the stranger.

"I won't steal the job from you, dear boy. Your employer is far too brooding for my tastes."

Emily wrinkled her brow in a deep frown as she heard the man's words. Jamie was still laughing at whatever the man had said before, and didn't seem to mind the stranger's criticism of Erik. The man was tall and well built, with dark hair and broad shoulders. He carried a leather satchel, and he rested his arm upon Jamie's shoulders in a lazy gesture that Emily hardly approved of.

The man bent to reach Jamie's ear, and in a mock-whisper which could be heard all the way to the kitchen, he said: "Do you think there are blonde deer in the area? I've heard they are very rare! A hunter's trophy, indeed!"

Before Emily had had time to hide behind the kitchen door once more, the man abruptly turned his head towards her, raising a thick, perfectly-shaped eyebrow in taunting contempt at her eavesdropping.

"Would you introduce me to the lady, James?" the man demanded in a playful, unnerving tone.  
He had an accent which was rather pleasing to the ear.

Emily took a deep breath and revealed herself, feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment.  
The man whispered something in Jamie's ear which sent the boy out of the house, and approached her with a few strange steps taken as if he were involved in a peculiar dance. Emily furrowed her brows, staring sternly at him, wondering whether he was still mocking her. His black hair contrasted with the color of his skin, making it look paler than it actually was, and under his thick black brows, his eyes looked black as coals. It was only when he was close, maybe too close, that Emily realized that around his dilated pupils were the brightest green irises she had ever seen. Emily's face turned the deepest shade of red as she saw her hand - when had he grasped her hand? – lifted to his lips, where the faintest brush over her skin tickled her, reflexively provoking the silliest giggle Emily had ever heard herself produce. Outraged by her own reaction, she tried rather gracelessly to pull her hand from his grip - without great success, as he kept holding it, looking at her fingers.

"If I have peeled onions today, please, God, let me die now," Emily thought, looking at him in a hostile manner.

"Allow me, Madame," the man said in a deep voice. "My name is Alexander Arnaud."

"I am Emily Nicholson," Emily replied, irritated, wondering how much longer she should leave her hand in his before something extremely rude escaped her lips.

"Perfect!"

"'Perfect' that my name is Emily Nicholson?" Emily asked harshly, starting to wonder whether the man had some mental problem. Unfortunately, the thought was all over her face and earned her another hearty laugh. She couldn't help noticing that his features became gentler when he laughed. Even his eyes were smiling in a naughty, cunning way.

"Perfect' describes the size of your fingers! Madame, I've brought you your ring."

Alexander Arnaud turned his broad back to her face upon hearing Jamie's steps behind them, leaving Emily to look at the expensive fabric of his traveler's coat.

"Thank you, lad," he said to the boy, handing him a black lacquered cane topped with a rounded, handcrafted handle made of some kind of crystal, which vanished inside the man's large palm before Emily had had a good look at it .

She felt her face grow hot with shame as she remembered her persistent stare at his strange, almost dance-like walk. The man had a limp, and she had stared at him like a foolish, curious girl. Her blush earned her another raised brow as the man waved his hand in disapproval.

Before she had the time to wonder whether she had offended him in any way, Alexander Arnaud once more turned his back to her and walked towards the now-open library door. Emily followed him, captivated by the man's ease. He moved and behaved as if he not only owned the house, but had been reared in it from birth. Entering the library, she saw the guest kissing Christine's hand and murmuring something about finally meeting her. Emily missed her response as she looked jealously at the woman's natural grace, but she couldn't help noticing that after the greeting, Christine moved back to stand beside Erik. The masked man was standing in his usual spot near the window, facing his guest with an unreadable expression on his face. His yellow eyes watched every move Christine made when she was near Alexander Arnaud intensely and focused on the man only when she was by his side again.

"What do you mean by that? Has Erik kept me a secret, my dear lady?"

"Apparently…" Christine replied guardedly with a faint smile.

"Well, that is natural, I suppose," the man said, taking off his coat. "He always envied my good looks," he stated in a serious tone, raising his dark brow in that characteristic way of his.

Christine's eyes widened in horror. She threw a fierce look at the man, and unconsciously, her hand traced the hands Erik held clasped behind his back. Emily watched her daring a look at him under her eyelashes, expecting the worst. The last thing she needed was someone making Erik more self-conscious than he usually was.

"What I lack in looks, I make up for _abundantly _in intelligence and talent. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for you, Alexander," Erik replied in a neutral and unexpectedly calm manner.

"Alas! I have made no progress in that field. I've tried my best to learn as much as I can about fashion, but I've been too busy brushing my hair," Arnaud replied in a serious tone, brushing his hand over his hair, which was tied with a black ribbon. At this point, the ribbon loosened, and his thick raven hair fell down about his shoulders.

Emily looked at him, stunned. Was he serious? She looked at his silk cravat, so perplexingly tied, his black pearl cufflinks, his light gray brocade waistcoat, the golden chain of his watch. He was the embodiment of a gentleman, but his long, long hair, falling far below his shoulders, gave him a savage look which had been completely absent before.

Alexander Arnaud tried to tame it with his hands, but with poor results, as the ribbon tore into two pieces in the attempt. Exasperated, he pushed his hair back over his shoulder. His stare landed on Christine as he said, very seriously, looking at her stunned face: "Do you, by any chance, have a brush?"

At the word "brush," his voice broke, and both men burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter which made Erik turn his back and his guest sink into an armchair, trying to compose himself.

Emily wondered whether Christine had ever heard Erik laugh so wholeheartedly, for she was surprised by the unfamiliar yet deep and melodious sound.

"Excuse me, my ladies, for excluding you from the joke, but you'd have to know my mother to understand how successful Erik is at mimicking her tone! I wouldn't have laughed but for that useless ribbon…"

"Excuses, Alex! Always excuses! You always laugh. You were never good at this," Erik interrupted him with a smile still lingering on his face, which was still reddened from laughter. He walked towards Arnaud's armchair and leaned with his shoulder against the heavy mantelpiece, his arms folded over his chest.

Christine sighed, relieved, but still looked at them as if they were insane.

"Acknowledging the danger of humiliating myself…" Alex started.

"…As if you could help it!" Erik muttered between his teeth.

"…I will explain what happened." Alex waved his hand in Erik's direction to silence him.  
"Erik spent a brief period of time at our house in Constantinople many, many years ago. You know he's an old man-"

"We are about the same age, Alex."

"_About_ is the key word, my friend. Anyway, my mother adored him. We were just a few years older than James," Alex said, nodding towards Jamie, who was standing by the door; at the movement, some strands of his long hair fell on his face. "I didn't even know what to do with my life, and he came from Venice with the best architect credentials a man _twice his age_ could hope to have. He had built a _palazzo_!"

"In Italy, there are palazzos," Erik stated, shrugging his shoulders. "What did you want me to build?" There was a clear hint of arrogance in his seemingly innocent smile.

"A barn, maybe? There are barns in Italy!" Alex's comment earned him a raised brow from Erik.  
"Anyway, after enduring a thousand lectures from my mother regarding _His Grace_, and how lucky my father had been to meet his death before seeing my own _disgrace_, I once commented in exasperation that I myself must have some redeeming quality, _something _better than Erik. She looked at me, horrified, guessing _wrongly_, I might add, at what I was referring to, and told me in that characteristic way of hers that Erik can mimic only _too_ sweetly, 'What you think he lacks in looks, he has plentifully in intelligence and talent! Unfortunately, I can't say the same for you, Alexander. If you're planning on wandering the earth with no purpose other than wearing nice clothes, at least start using a brush.' That only caused me to leave the house in anger at her. Erik found me, we talked, drank cheap wine, and compared our miseries - it was a tie! We got drunk in a way no gentleman should _ever _get in his life," Alex said, his eyes locked on Jamie, "and Erik left Constantinople less than a month later. So eager to conquer the world! I saw him again years later. We weren't the same anymore…"

Erik's stare at the man was sad.

"You should have stayed back then," Alex stated.

"I should have, my friend. I should have."

II II II

Alexander Arnaud stood with the help of his cane and tossed his long hair over his shoulder.

"Do you, by any chance, have a ribbon or a piece of string?" he asked Emily, who nodded her head and immediately left the room. She was surprised to hear him following her.

"I have something for you," he explained, shifting his weight onto his other foot. Taking a small box out of his coat pocket, he opened it to reveal a wide gold band with a diamond, an emerald, an amethyst, and a ruby.

Emily held her breath. She had been expecting a simple band. Something to fill the void, the loneliness she felt every time she looked at her ringless hand. This ring had all the colors of the rainbow when the sun's rays fell on it.

"So many colors!" she heard herself saying.

"I hope it is to your liking." There was a hint of doubt in his voice. "It is called a 'regard' ring. Each gemstone helps to spell out the word 'dear.' See? Diamond, Emerald, Amethyst, Ruby…"

Her hand trembled when she took the ring out of the tiny velvet box and slipped it onto her finger. He was right. It was a perfect fit!

"It is beautiful." Her voice was barely audible, and she fought back the tears threatening to embarrass her in front of a man she hardly knew. He boldly placed his finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"May your life be full of colors and happiness." His green eyes looked at her reassuringly, and Emily felt warm inside. So many people - Erik, Christine, even a stranger she had met less than an hour ago - assured her everything would be fine. Why did she allow herself to wallow in doubt and worry? Wasn't it a sign that everything would turn out as it should? And if a sign was needed, what could be better than a perfectly fitted ring with colorful gemstones? Emily finally felt at peace, and after so many days filled with anguish, she realized what a fool she'd been not to celebrate the dawn of a new life for her, the new life in her. She gave a beaming smile to the man who blinked at her sudden change of mood.

Emily took off her ring and looked at it appreciatively under the sunlight shining through the curtains.

"You are lucky Erik didn't pick the ring. He's a keen admirer of pure, but never artless, simplicity."

"There is an engraving inside," Emily stated, turning the ring in her fingers, trying to read it. "'Two rings, one soul'?" she asked, puzzled.

"Women are always curious about other women's rings. No man in his right mind would give a wedding band with nothing engraved inside. In case someone asks to see it - I guess your husband will wear a ring, too."

"Erik has told you…I'm not yet -"

"Erik is a man of few words. He wrote me, '_I invite you to be Lady Luck's guard and guardian' _with a brief summary of the situation and what was needed. I wholeheartedly complied." Alexander Arnaud raised his finely-arched brow in a self-mocking gesture, and graced her with one of his charming, cunning smiles.

"I didn't know if your fiancé was sailing to the States...then a diamond solitaire engagement ring would be in order. It is the latest fashion by a famous jeweler there named Tiffany." Emily noticed that Arnaud changed the subject in the blink of a second. No matter how noble he seemed, Emily felt extremely irritated. Did he feel she needed saving from the embarrassment of her own misfortune?

"Is extraordinarily long hair _in fashion _lately, Monsieur Arnaud?"

She regretted the question, and her sarcastic, disapproving tone even before the words escaped her mouth. The man was strange but had helped her, and was Erik's guest. In Erik's private world, there was always so much comfort and support that Emily had forgotten simple everyday things like etiquette, propriety, and above all, what social rules indicated regarding conversations between two people of obviously different classes.

"I'm afraid such long hair was never in fashion and never will be. Still, if I followed every single rule I'd be nothing but a fop!" Alex said, tying his hair with the ribbon she had left earlier for him on the kitchen table.

"Is this less offensive to you, dear lady?" His tone was serious. He looked, now, like a true gentleman. Polite, respectful, and distant. He gazed at her honestly in the eyes. No raised brows, no sly smiles. But Emily couldn't help feeling he was mocking her or that part of him was angry with her. She never had the chance to estimate the accuracy of her assumptions, as for the third time that day, she found herself staring at his broad back as he walked proudly towards the library.

II II II

"I know you could have sent the ring with a manservant, Alex. What is the true purpose of your visit?" Erik asked, sitting in his leather armchair by the fire. Alexander Arnaud, already sitting in the other, stretched his long legs out before him, playing with the cane in his hand.

Christine had left them to talk with the excuse of helping Emily prepare tea, but not before she had served them some malt. It was strange to see her act like the lady of the house. So easy for her, so fitting, Erik felt; so right.

"I have a letter for you from the Persian. He sent it to me, asking to deliver it to your hands. He didn't have your address, but knew that I did due to the renovation of the Twin House. He asked me for it."

"Did you give it to him?"

"Obviously not. I had to tempt _you _with my chess board for it," Alex replied with a mischievous smile, handing Erik the letter. "He was quite irritated," he added, pleased with himself. His stare locked on the Spanish chess set lovingly. "I hope you don't cheat, given my _ingenious _moves." Erik raised a brow at his shameless arrogance.

"I also have a warning for you. From Lady Arnaud, this time." Arnaud smiled again, seeing he had Erik's full attention. "A man was looking for you. He was asking questions -"

"When you say 'looking for _me'_-?"

"Not Erik Rochelle. He was asking about the Phantom." Alexander's voice had lowered but was still loud enough for Erik to hear.

"He knew of his travels in Constantinople _and _of his time spent in Persia. He said he was doing research, but didn't give many details."

"What did he look like?"

"I haven't seen him! I was in damn Avebury, seeing the monuments."

"They are nice. Neolithic. Older than Stonehenge," Erik commented lightly, knowing that would irritate the man.

"As if I haven't seen enough," Alex grunted. Erik noticed Alexander's perpetual good mood was kind of battered.

"What else did he say?"

"Nothing much. He was an Englishman. According to description, an ordinary man. He just made a foul impression on Lady Arnaud. That, and the fact he knew far too many details. I had met the Persian in Paris and decided to come here to begin with, but this alarmed me."

"What did your mother tell him?"

"I can swear she said nothing," he said, smiling again. "When she doesn't want to talk, she takes that 'I'm too old' attitude. I pity the man for having to deal with it."

Erik chuckled at the comment and opened the letter. He started reading, furrowing his brow at times, while Alexander took a few sips of his malt. When he finished, he looked at the curious man staring at him.

"You were right. There is someone looking for me in Paris, too," Erik said cryptically.

"I knew it! I knew there was something strange there!" Arnaud almost jumped in his armchair, which caused him to spill his malt all over his sleeve. "Bloody hell!" he muttered between his teeth. "Give me your handkerchief," he ordered Erik.  
"Thank you," he said more like a curse than an expression of gratitude.

"You are welcome!" Erik replied, mimicking his tone.

"Don't laugh! I'll smell like a drunken…" He sank into the armchair again, noticing the embroidering with Erik's initials on the handkerchief. He looked at him questioningly.

"Emily sees it fit for a gentleman like _me_," he said with self-pointed sarcasm, "to use handkerchiefs with my initials on them. Her needlework is a work of art."

"Very considerate of her," Alex commented skeptically.  
"Would you oblige me by disclosing the information in the letter I took such_ excruciating _effort in bringing to you, or are you going to leave me in the dark?"

"Well, there was indeed an Englishman looking for information about the Phantom story. Nadir found out about him and pursued him. He is an ordinary man, an illustrator working for _Punch_. He lived in France some years ago, studying art, and had this idea about writing a book based on the old story of the Opera Ghost. Nadir talked him out of it, I guess. He even asked if he could alter the story so it would involve a tone-deaf woman hypnotized into becoming a Diva." Erik chuckled at the thought of Christine's hearing the "tone-deaf" description. She would be absolutely furious!  
"Nadir persuaded him that the _victims' wounds _were still fresh, and he'd better postpone his plan, or he'd make some very important enemies."

"Are you certain of this?"

"The man is no threat. He's even lost his vision in his left eye. He's attempting a career change."

"And is Nadir right? Are the _victims' wounds _still fresh?" Alex asked, changing the subject.

Erik barricaded himself into silence.

"Are your affections still the same?" Alexander insisted.

"_'Love's not Time's fool,' _Alex," Erik commented bitterly with a mocking smile on his face, avoiding the other man's stare.

"'_Even to the edge of doom,' _then?" Arnaud asked, using another verse of the same sonnet.

"And beyond, my friend, far beyond…"

"What are you going to do?"

Erik closed his eyes in shame. Every time he closed his eyes, his senses were filled with her taste, her smell, the soft feel of her succulent lips against his. He pressed his lips into a thin, firm line to send the feeling away. The woman had just confessed her most private guilt, her greatest shame, and he had reacted in the most absurd, most inappropriate way, as if trying to prove that all those who had hurt her had been right to question her virtue. He was surprised she talked to him.

"Nothing! What's the point in hurting a woman who torments herself?"

"Erik, you wouldn't recognize happiness even if it hit you on the head with a hammer!"

"What do you think I'm doing here? Resting before conquering the world?"

"It wouldn't be such a bad idea, this time!" Alex exclaimed, exasperated.

"I've been fighting my whole life, Alex. I'm at war with life, people, my own weakness…the only reason she's here is to seek absolution, comfort. I couldn't…I shouldn't take advantage of this. She's drowning herself in grief, in guilt." He took a deep breath. "She is not here by choice."

Reaching for his waistcoat pocket, Alex consulted his watch. "For a deformed man, you have an enormous ego, my friend."  
He chuckled at Erik's growl. "Don't try to control people's motives. It's ambitious enough trying to control their actions."  
He averted his eyes from Erik. "Well, she's got you wrapped around her little finger, and you don't even know it.  
"And she has eyes only for you!" Alex added after a while.

"What do you mean?"

"She is immune to my natural charm. I've tried all my tricks!"

Erik felt a knot in his stomach at the mere thought of Alex trying to charm Christine. He threw a wild look at the man sitting in the armchair beside him, staring back at him with a cherubic smile on his face. The man raised his hands in mock surrender.

"God! I had forgotten about your temper! You know I haven't tried anything!" Alex supplied another one of his incredibly charming, half sly, half innocent smiles, which in brief turned to deep laughter at the sight of Erik's sour look.

"I'll use your cane against you, Alex."

"What? My harmless cane?

"Knowing you, there is nothing harmless about this cane! I've heard of the _b__aton francais _before."

"It's only a means of self-defense! The world has become a dangerous place! And who knows what evil's new form is? No other protection needed with this beauty. After all, daggers show such poor taste." Alexander caressed the rough crystal ball. Erik noticed it was of the same crystal the chess set was made.

"Was it made by the same craftsman?" he asked, taking the cane from Alex. In the center of the ball, there was a ruby. Alex nodded in agreement.

"It looks like a drop of blood," Erik commented, handing him back the cane.

"It reminds me of my goal. A drop of _his _blood will be the only thing left when I'm through with him…and it will be in there." Alex's knuckles had turned white. "Unlike you, my friend, I am a man of great patience!"

They remained in silence for a while, with only the crackling noise of the fire interrupting their thoughts.

"What are you going to do here?"

"What do you want me to do? Live, I suppose," Erik replied with a half smile.

"It is the first time I've seen such a skill for survival in a man so insistent on being buried alive."

Erik remained silent.

"Come with me! With all your family and strays," Alex said enthusiastically, stroking Blue's head behind his ears. "You will be my long lost brother. No one will dare to doubt Lady Arnaud! At last, she will find someone to take the place of her late good son."

Erik heard the man's bitterness hidden in his sarcastic remark. "You have no appreciation of the truth," he commented lightly.

"Truth means nothing to me!" Alex's grip on his cane became tighter. "As I suspect, to you, either. Its value is extremely overestimated. Too subjective for my taste. Manners, on the other hand! That's what I value the most!" he added, smiling again.

At that point, after a soft knock on the door, Christine entered with the tea tray.

"I hope I'm not interrupting -"

"On the contrary, my dear lady! You will sweeten my humiliation," Alex complained, offering one more of his smiles. Erik wondered whether it was one more of his "tricks" to charm Christine. After all, Alexander Arnaud was a handsome man. He could have any woman he chose, except for the one who looked at them both with her curious violet eyes as she served them tea.

"I offered him my name and he refused me. For the second time, I might add."

Christine looked at Alex, pursing her lips in that small, delightful habit of hers when she was puzzled about something. Suddenly, knowing the taste of those lips filled Erik with such pride as no ambitious conqueror of the world must have ever felt, and when Christine handed him his cup, after first tasting the warm liquid, a glorious joy overwhelmed him.

"You must have misunderstood that part of the custom, Alex. You are supposed to offer your name to a lady!" he mocked his handsome friend.

"God! I knew there was something wrong with the equation! Erik, you are so fixated on details! It's like this obsession you have with drama…"

II II II

Christine couldn't restrain her chuckle as she heard the two men. It was like listening to a verbal fencing match where witty remarks and mocking comments were exchanged. Despite Emily's opinion of Alexander Arnaud - "_a man with an overblown opinion of himself_"- Christine liked the man. And most of all, she liked his influence on Erik. She loved the way he looked more relaxed around Alex, but above all, she loved the deep, melodic sound of his laughter.

She tried to concentrate on their discussion. It seemed Alexander Arnaud disliked operas, finding them "overdramatic," with "ridiculous" themes. That coming from any other man would surely have evoked Erik's contempt and scorn, but when declared by Alex earned only a masculine chuckle which sounded like music to Christine's ears.

"Who is that opera hero, that prince…_general_, who falls in love with a slave in Egypt…I can't recall her name -"

"Aida!" Erik growled, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Do you consider slaves incapable of love, Monsieur Arnaud?" Christine interfered.

"On the contrary, my lady! My mother considered herself a slave when she gave birth to me!"

"He is exaggerating, Christine! If only all the slaves in the world were like Lady Arnaud…born in Constantinople, member of a Phanariot family…"

Alexander waved his hand in a gesture of disinterest.

"Don't change the subject, Erik. I was tortured by your favorite art for more than two hours! I endured watching a fat, ugly, old tenor playing that general -"

"Radames!"

"_That_ one! I honest to God thought he'd die on the stage, at any second. The woman playing Aida was the worst actress ever! She moved her hands like poles. More than once, I feared she'd blind the man, the way she waved her arms around. But, I shouldn't feel sorry for him. Signor Gradielli blackmailed the audience's applause by just standing on the stage after each aria, looking at us! I regretted I had a box. I regretted my height for not being able to hide behind my escort's richly feathered hat. I remember I forced myself to applaud out of pity for the dying man, thinking this could easily be his last performance. And then, he shamelessly smiled at us with an arrogant look all over his face! That's why manners count! If I valued truth, I should have jumped from the box and punched him on his red, flat nose. Manners - _my _good manners, if I might add! - kept him out of harm's way and prevented my temper from crippling me even more!"

Erik's eyes were laughing, but contrary to Christine, he did manage to restrain his laughter.

"Poor production. It's not Opera's fault!"

"It's not only about production! It is the very story! If I were in his place, I would grab Aida and leave the cave, Egypt, whatever… and flee to enjoy our love! Not sing about it! What's the nobility in dying for love if you are not willing to live for it?"

Alex's words shook Christine to the core. She looked at the men carrying on the conversation about Verdi and the libretto's weaknesses. She looked at Erik, her Angel, who lived and breathed operas and their melodramatic finales, as he passionately defended his argument.

Christine felt numb as the realization sank in. There were no happy endings in operas! Lovers died, usually an unjust death in the name of their briefly lived but undying love. That immortal love, for the first time in her life, left Christine feeling cold and empty inside. She didn't want this! She looked at the man whose taste had resurfaced on her lips every time she drank a sip of the Russian tea he favored. Bitter and smoky! A man so stubborn, so strong, so in control, who could live a whole lifetime by her side before he allowed himself to feel worthy of pursuing happiness. A man so mysterious, so enigmatic she could live a thousand lives before comprehending what happiness meant for him. She felt like drowning in a cloud of despair while the sounds of male laughter surrounded her. She couldn't be alone anymore. Not now. Not after spending so long wondering about all the "what ifs." If she had had the time, if she had known, if she were stronger, if she were smarter, if she were bolder… there weren't any questions now. Now it was time for answers.

Christine watched Alexander Arnaud mount his horse. The beautiful stallion became nothing but a small dark dot on the uneven lane that boldly divided the green landscape like a scissors cut. She had bid the man a typical farewell like an automaton, hoping she gave all the right responses. Her hand traced Erik's large hand, and she took a deep breath only when she felt his fingers squeezing hers for the briefest time. He looked at her with that stare she had learned to recognize during the past few days. The stare that had warmed her heart, but not anymore. Not this night. She looked at his eyes again, in doubt. No, nothing had changed; everything was there. Acceptance, comfort, care. She withdrew her hand from his, averting her eyes from his questioning gaze. She knew where all this was leading. A quiet dinner, some questioning glances; her desperately seeking to spend as much time as she could by his side, and him sending her to her room, promising music.

Suddenly, music was not enough. It wasn't even close to what she craved. She stole a glance at the masked man beside her at the kitchen table. Erik was quiet, withdrawn into his own world again. A world beyond her reach. A world where she was only a chapter, like Alexander Arnaud, Constantinople, or Persia. A small, questionably important chapter, compared to a lifetime of experiences. Christine took a deep breath, wishing to find the strength she needed for what she had in mind. She dared another look at his pensive expression. For a man with half a face, Erik had so many faces she knew nothing about, and she wanted to see them all, one by one.


	20. Stay with Me

Hello, everyone!

As you've probably figured out by now, I'm lousy at these Author Notes. Too many variables to think about…

Is it morning or night when you read this, are you at work or studying…should a "Good morning" be enough, accurate or even needed?

Too many options for my indecisive Libra self...

Still, a creative constant in my life is my writing partner, Chapucera.

We have written stories alone, we have written a story together, and we keep pressuring each other to write more.

I may not seem objective – she is my writing partner, after all! — but her short story,_ Garlic_, is a true gem! Read it and tell me if I'm wrong!

Now to TCU, I think I have to warn you about this chapter...

This was the first reason this story was rated as "T". You'll understand as you read. I won't say more for the time being…

As always, I have to declare that you wouldn't be reading any of this without Desiree's and TOWDNWTBN's help. They are great!

Have a nice week!

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**Chapter 20 – Stay with Me**

For the first time, I'm writing in these pages with a knot in my stomach. I know that if Erik knew I still keep a diary, he'd relentlessly mock my habit. I remember when I was living at the Opera House, and my Angel tried to talk me out of it. "Why do you need a diary when you can share all your thoughts with me, child?" He was so cunning, so artful in his deceit that he had persuaded me for a while. I used to run to my mirror or lie on my bed and talk and talk and talk till my heart was light and all my fears subsided. And though there is not a day that passes when I don't blame myself for my stupidity in believing in angels, I find myself missing that time, the only time in my life I was never alone, never lonely.

Was I so wrong? After all, everyone believed in demons. Since I was a child, I had been warned about demons taking advantage of innocent girls or inner demons who made girls act in sinful ways. My Angel cared for me, protected me, showed me that with work and belief in myself, I could accomplish anything. His sweet voice was a lullaby, a caress, a balsam to my soul. If demons existed, why not angels?

My Angel would have seen no need for a diary, and Erik would sneer at "_ladies' writing of their romantic visions of life_." Or maybe he wouldn't…

I hear his voice talking to Jamie in the front yard. His thorough instructions about the parcel the boy is going to collect from Mr. Hamilton's store. He has to ask Daniel to wrap it before he collects it.

"Shall I help him?" I hear the boy's curiosity in his words. He's intrigued. Erik sounds serious and indifferent.

"No! It is _his _job to do it. If Mr. Hamilton has followed my instructions, it should already be wrapped. If not, go to your mother to collect the groceries. I want you home early for the lesson today. No spending the afternoon with Mary."

I can almost see Erik's face in my mind. Stern, strict but not harsh. Nothing in his expression would betray that the parcel is the boy's birthday present, wrapped, waiting to be collected. A new, shining, leather saddle for his birthday in a few days. Jamie will no doubt be thrilled.

"But maybe Verne's new book has arrived…shouldn't I check for it?" Jamie is such a lovely boy. Steals your heart with no effort. He's at that age where the child slowly becomes a young man, and he is shy and introverted. I'd like to have known him some years ago when he was little and it wouldn't have been so awkward to hug him and spoil his tidy saffron hair.

But it's not Jamie I steal a glance out of the window to look at. This morning I'm dizzy and lightheaded. I have eyes only for the man standing beside Jamie, dressed in impeccable black clothes, as always, as if nothing has happened, as if this is a day like all the others. I hold my breath to hear his response. It is_ his _voice I wait to listen to.

"Well, just to check. No wasting time! The rain will get worse."

Only after his remark do I look at the sky. The soft rain surprises me. I thought I had awakened in bright sunshine. It seems my sunny mood has nothing to do with the weather. I let his words dance in my head one more time. "The rain will get worse."

What a sweet sound! How silly of me to find talk of the weather sweet! I let myself smile behind the curtain. He looks for me. I feel a shiver down my spine just thinking of him looking for me. His golden glance locks on the curtain. Does he know I'm watching him? Can he see me? I don't care. I have every right to look at him, even secretly, from behind the curtain. I have every right to listen to his voice. From this day on, it is not Erik's baritone or the Phantom's beautiful, alluring voice. It's not even my Angel's caress I hear. From this day on, it is _my lover's _voice.

II II II

I don't know where I found the courage to be so bold last night, since now, I'm so frightened and apprehensive. Happiness has always frightened me the most. This sweet hope I witness in people when everything is as it should be, this hope that life will still be generous and nothing will change. This has always been an uncanny feeling. Not many happy things have happened in my life. I'm not complaining. I wouldn't change my life for anything!

Still, part of me feels – shall I say _knows? _– that happiness is not meant for people like us, like me, like Erik. Is it a premonition? Is my heart weak again? Maybe we are condemned or contaminated, I don't know. And, for the first time in my life, I don't care.

Looking at Meg's letter on my dresser, which awaits a reply, I know I won't be truthful to my friend. Once more, I won't be able to share my secret. I will comment on the obnoxious, rainy English weather as if I care about the rain, and describe to her my handmade gift to Jamie with thorough, boring details, as if it is the most important thing on my mind. I'll end the letter with some comments about Erik for her to read to her mother. Not many details there, as I neither trust myself nor Minnette's observant ear.  
Only that he is affectionate, gentle and respectful, always polite and kind to me.

I won't write anything about the alluring, fascinating music he played for me every night as I drifted into the dreams_ he_ drew for me. I won't confess I left my door open, not to listen to his_ affectionate_ melodies better, but as a silent call to him. I won't reveal my frustration night after night when he closed the door _gently _or my annoyance at his _respectful _tone every morning when he greeted me.

I won't admit I used every chance to touch him, and made my touch linger a bit longer than necessary, or a bit tighter than needed, only to meet his always _polite and kind _stare as he squeezed my hand for the briefest of moments or read me my book. I won't say a word about how I felt last night, or how, suddenly, my life seemed too short, too shallow without him by my side. I won't describe how I called him to my room on a trivial pretext – "_My necklace clasp has broken, and I always wear this. Will you help me for a moment?"— _nor will I excuse my behavior.

No one has to know what is meant for us only. What does this make me? Smart? Daring? Desperate? I don't know. Selfish? Nothing more than the self-centered girl who was forced into womanhood in a matter of months some years ago? I don't know and I don't care anymore.

II II II

"Stay with me tonight." My plea was nothing but a whisper as I saw him heading to my bedroom door. He heard me. He always hears me. His questioning eyes locked with mine as he tried to estimate what I asked, what I offered.

I walked towards him, holding my necklace in my hand in a silent request that he help me wear it again. I moved my hair from my neck and stole a glance at him as he secretly brushed his hands on his trousers to warm them before touching me. I remembered all the times I had recoiled from his cold touch as if I'd been another person, one I hardly recognize anymore. How could I have recoiled from what I now long for? I turned to look at the man whose touch I needed more than anything at that moment.

"Ask me why I chose this necklace." It was a strange order, made more as a desperate request. Erik had never been fond of orders. I know that. As his eyes focused on my necklace, a simple gemstone held by a thin golden chain, I watched his expression change. His first unspoken question, whether it was Raoul's gift, must have found an easy answer. This was not proper jewelry for a vicomtesse. Too simple. Too naive in its artistry. Not expensive enough.

"Why?"

Will I ever get used to his voice? Will I ever be immune to its magic?

"It's citrine," I told him as my fingers played with the warm yellow gem. "It's like looking at the sun through a veil made of pure, light honey." I moved even closer. "This is the color of your eyes, Erik. Do you know your eyes are gold? Pure, shining gold."

"They are not gold. They have a sick, yellowish color," he corrected me.

"I know what I see. This is gold!"

"Have you seen any normal person with such an eye color?"

"I have seen you, and I love your eyes," I replied stubbornly. "When I thought you were dead…they were all I could think of. Your eyes…"

"It seems I'm lucky. There are far more monstrous features of mine to be remembered."

I ignored his comment and his attempt to change the subject. "I bought it myself before I went to Minnette." I avoided adding, "after leaving Raoul." I saw in his eyes that he knew. "I wanted to have your eyes on me every minute, every day…"

He looked at me, speechless. I love leaving him speechless. It's so rare! Erik is the most intelligent man I have ever met, the most intelligent man I've heard about, and spends all his time studying. How many lifetimes should I have just to study _him_? What an inadequate student I've been!

I got bolder. My hand rose and my fingers barely touched the key hanging from his neck.

"What do you think you're doing?" He knows of my curious nature more than anyone.

I drew my hand from his neck, but not before I let the back of my palm linger a while longer on his throbbing vein there. I had wanted to do that from the first time I'd seen him again in France. To feel his pulse beating under my fingers, make sure he was as strong, as alive as he looked, not a figment of my imagination.

"Do not torture me, Christine." A deep, pained whisper. "You're not alone. You're not free."

There was no time for ghosts. No time for explanations. I wouldn't let anyone take this night from me, what seemed so right, so true.

"I _am _free, and I don't want to be alone. Not anymore. No one will find me here. At least no one I don't want to," I said with a smile, referring to Meg's letter. I was proud of my serious voice. It was the voice of a woman who holds her life in her own hands, who's free, not because a man spared her out of pity or love, not because a man let her go. I was free by choice. "Stay with me."

"People don't change, Christine." A clear warning I pushed back for the time being.  
I smiled at him. I could argue with that, but starting an argument with Erik was the last thing on my mind.

"I can't change," he repeated slowly, word by word.

I looked at his golden eyes. I had to be focused. I had to be careful not to drive him away.

He towered over me. His white mask glowed as if attracting all the light in the room. He filled my senses, leaving me breathless. He looked strong and vulnerable at the same time. At this moment, how I had managed to live without this man for so long seemed beyond my comprehension.

"Stay with me," I heard myself say with a voice rendered unrecognizable by its suppressed emotion. "Love me as a man loves a woman. Let me love you as a woman loves a man."  
Where did I find the courage to say such words? I blush only thinking about them. He makes me show him a part of myself hidden even from my own eyes, buried under so many unspoken rules and prohibitions. At the moment, I felt I had every right. I couldn't spend another lonely night with him lying in the next room. I felt no doubt, no hesitation. I gazed into his eyes, hoping my expression would show him what was beyond words. My need, my yearning, my longing, my determination.

But he looked determined, too. Determined and doubtful at the same time. His hand was still on the doorknob. I felt as if my whole existence this moment depended on his next move. Everything else seemed meaningless. I placed my hand on his and caressed his knuckles, turned white from the strong grip on the handle. He looked at our entwined fingers as if it were a strange and unbelievable sight. Was he blind? Couldn't he see me burning for his touch?

"Stay," I said a little more harshly than I meant to.

He nodded. I felt a large, victorious smile forming on my face beyond my control. I let my hands move towards the collar of his shirt. He turned rigid. He grasped my hands gently but firmly and held them under his palm against his chest. He looked calm, but I felt the rapid beating of his heart. It matched mine. I smiled at him, but my smile faded when his other hand pointed vaguely towards his mask.

"There will be no unmasking."

I held my breath at the statement. I looked at his face again. He was gravely serious.

"This stays on," he repeated slowly. He was like a strong, proud warrior naming his terms before the ultimate surrender. At this stage, I might have agreed with anything he said, any term he fixed. I nodded my agreement.

"At any point." His voice sounded serious and clear, as intended, but I felt him caressing me with its deep, rich tone.

"Not by me," I whispered.

He looked at me with stormy eyes. For a moment, I feared he had changed his mind, that he'd leave me after having been so close… tears stung my eyes. My knees weakened, and I steadied myself against his chest.

"I won't hurt you, Erik. I wouldn't do that to you…not again."

"We will regret this. I know…"

"This is no time to think. This is a time to feel. I want to feel loved, if only for one night…I don't care if it's a lie. Lie to me! I just want to hear someone say that he loves me… you don't have to say you love me. Tell me that you loved me back then…"

"I didn't love you, Christine. I worshipped you."

My eyes shut against my will under the spell of his voice. When the cold touch of his lips I yearned for never came, I opened my eyes and found him looking at me. Did he have doubts? I couldn't tell. I had to do something to make him stay. I slipped my arms around his waist, obediently away from his neck, his head, his mask. I traced the tensed muscles of his back under my fingers, and leaned against his chest, breathing his scent.

"No one has to know," I murmured against his shirt. I heard and felt him draw a deep breath. He looked at me with an unreadable expression on his face. His hand moved to the door. My heart sank. The next sound I heard was the key turning in the lock.

II II II

I don't know what _he _supposed my experience or my familiarity with the art of lovemaking was – for my lover, everything is a form of art – but he was gentle and tender. Sometimes hesitant, other times, curious and surprising, but always a passionate lover. I'm sure he doesn't suspect my love life with Raoul was brief thanks to my inexperience and confusion at first, and then to the difficult pregnancy that followed.

I had been so protected, and more than a few times I was appalled by the indecent descriptions so freely made by other girls at the Opera House; I was satisfied in the thought that lovemaking is a gift a woman offers to her husband. I feel awkward thinking I sought pleasure for myself, but inviting Erik to my room last night was not for his sake only. Not just to show him I wanted to be with him no matter what. I knew I would find pleasure in his arms. I just didn't know how much it would be and how much more would be promised but still denied.

I felt his eyes burning me. I felt exposed, as if I weren't fully dressed, and only the thought of him, always so in control, so guarded, looking at me that way sent shivers down my spine, and I fought to hide my trembling. During our short marriage, Raoul had never forced me into anything. He had been a caring and considerate lover, but had treated me in general like a childhood friend with privileges. He had realized I didn't feel comfortable, and had decided not to pressure me, until love and intercourse were the last things on my mind.

When I heard Erik name his terms, I knew I would agree to anything he said, I would agree with anything he asked, no matter what. I had hoped he would feel comfortable to be seen, at least by me. After all, I'd seen him before without his mask; but I was wrong. At that point, I didn't care. A treacherous part inside me was even relieved. I fear my reaction when I see his mangled flesh again. I don't want to feel so small and petty as I feel right now thinking about it, but I wished for him to feel comfortable and free. I wanted whatever he offered, and I couldn't afford to set my rules, at that point. Maybe in time…

I wonder if Raoul felt such disappointment with_ my _unspoken rules, my modesty, my unwillingness to surrender myself to him, to my husband. Still, if a man thinks that by marrying a woman, he owns her, he is nothing but a fool. I feel badly about his pain, but I know I was right then. It wasn't the time for me… he wasn't the man for me…

I found that man, I pursued him shamelessly, and forced my presence on him, trying hard to be a part of his new life, but I've always felt my dignity intact, because no matter how bold or improper I've been, every minute I've felt his respect, his caring – his _love_, which is something he denies even to himself. I surrendered myself to this man fully, unconditionally. I didn't care what he thought of me and my brazen behavior. I let him have my body as I gave him everything else worthwhile in me years ago.

I had never expected to be touched by such soft, such tender fingers. I saw the apprehension, the hesitation in his eyes, and pressed his cold hand to my bare skin.  
I was burning with anticipation, and his cold, trembling touch made me shiver in pleasure. How could something so cold produce such heat in me? When his hands were warmed by my hot flesh, I sighed my disappointment, and tried to free more of his flesh to my eyes, to my hands.

He looked at me doubtfully, probably expecting me to have changed my mind. That moment, I was sure he waited for me, and I gave him a triumphant smile. He wasn't ignorant of women's nature or of intimacy, and that stung in a way I hadn't expected. But it had been a long time for both of us, and that warmed me inside.

I held his hand to my body, hating the fabric that separated us. I wanted him to undress me. I knew he would like that for himself, so I took some steps towards the bed and smiled reassuringly.

I had never been undressed more slowly, more delicately, in a more torturesome way. I felt his fingers, his lips everywhere on my body, but not enough, not remotely enough to be satisfied. Was he torturing me on purpose? Through my half-closed eyes, I saw his wicked, satisfied smile when I tried to help him get rid of his offending, unwanted clothes, but he stopped my hand, spreading light kisses on my fingers, on my knuckles, on my palm, making my need grow.

What did he want? For me to beg for his touch? I felt the bed's covers, cool under my back, and realized I was completely naked, lying under his dark stare. How had that happened? He still had his clothes on, his shirt, his waistcoat…  
I heard a groan of disappointment, and then realized it had escaped from my own lips.  
I tried to draw him to bed, but he stood before me, his need evident, his breathing irregular, his lips parted. Strong, tall, powerful, like a god. His eyes waited, but I was dizzy, unable to read their many questions.

"Erik," was all I said, my own voice husky, unrecognizable to my ears, but it seemed to answer his unspoken question as he sat beside me on the bed. Moments later, I felt his hot breath on me as he sighed, but he didn't reach over to kiss me. Was he hesitating? Was he having second thoughts? Did he find what he saw less than satisfying? I wasn't the dancer, the girl of my youth. I'd been pregnant. I'd borne a child. I had neglected myself. For the first time that night, I felt embarrassed by my body, my nudity, and I tried to cover myself with my hand, but he removed it, replacing it with his own large one.

"Christine," he whispered, and his voice was my undoing. How could he deny me his voice? He could make love to me with just his voice, his whispers, his uneven breaths. Did he not know, after so many years of waiting and longing, that that would be enough? Instead, as if wanting to punish me, he remained silent, but I nonetheless entered the world he showed me with his inquiring hands, his passionate lips.

I felt him testing and tasting me, learning me and my body like a musical instrument he wanted to master. And I guided him with my sighs, my moans, my hands…  
That first night we were together, I don't remember when or how exactly I was introduced to that world of pleasure. I know he knows, and that is enough for me. I also know that all my plans to discover his body were discarded, postponed for another time. I kept my eyes closed, all my energy spent in feeling his naked body, sensing his desire, keeping him inside me.

I felt as if a wave of energy were building inside me, step by step, thrust by thrust, a heat I'd never felt before, and I was on the edge of something I couldn't control when I heard his voice again.

"Christine," he commanded, "open your eyes!" His commanding tone startled me, drew me back from the whirlwind that was claiming me. I frowned but unwillingly obeyed my lover's demand and opened my eyes, looking first at the hair that covered his chest, dampened with sweat. I couldn't help myself, and kissed him there, smiling at his slightly salty taste.

"Christine," I heard my name again, but his voice was now deep and pained. "Look at me!" He whispered his order into my ear, and my eyes focused on his mask and his half-exposed face, which was contorted by his effort at control. His golden eyes were almost black, and I smiled at him, but my smile faded as I felt him move inside me again.

"Look at _me_," he growled as he saw my eyelids grow heavy with pleasure. "_Look _at me." His voice was now a soft whisper that brought me to the edge again. I fought very hard to keep my eyes locked with his as I felt him moving inside me again. I let my eyes and my face show him what he was doing to me, but suddenly the air seemed insufficient. I gasped for breath, feeling my lips dry. I felt I had absolutely no control over myself and my body; as if I had exploded within into a thousand pieces I could never gather back. I was trembling, and I tried to be as close to him as possible. Savoring the feeling of his strong arms around me, I slid my arms around his back, holding him tightly to me. His lips brushed away tears I hadn't realized I'd shed, and he whispered words into my ears, whole sentences I couldn't understand. I regret it now, but I couldn't help it.

I don't know whether he found the heights of pleasure that I did. I'm ashamed to say I didn't even think about it at the moment. I don't know how long we stayed enveloped in each other's arms like that, but I couldn't stand him moving away from me, even as his caress touched my nipple and sent a violent shiver down my spine and a new tremble like a spasm. I felt embarrassed beyond belief that I couldn't control myself when he was so composed and calm in my arms. I inwardly wished for us to stay like that all night, but after a while, I felt him withdraw from my body and sit at the edge of the bed with his back turned to me. Only then did I realize that even though it was unbuttoned, he still had his shirt on. I felt ashamed of myself and of how inadequate a lover I was. I didn't know how he felt, whether he had been satisfied or not. I had wanted him so badly, but still hadn't taken that hateful shirt off him at the beginning. I had been so selfish! I put my hand hesitantly on his back, wondering where my boldness had gone.

"I am sorry, Angel," I whispered, but my voice broke. I felt him stiffen at my words.

In a minute, he stood, gathered his clothes which were scattered all over the bed and the floor, and hastily dressed. He left without a word, without a smile, like a man hunted.

I sank onto the sheets that so painfully held his scent, knowing I could not hold him beside me. All my thoughts and hopes that everything would be miraculously fine _afterwards _sank. I curled my body into a ball, aching from his absence, and tightly wrapped myself into the covers, pretending he was holding me.

My paltry experience in relationships and men could never have prepared me for a man as complicated as Erik. Still, no matter how hard it pained me to lie alone in a bed meant for lovers, I had no regrets. I never felt filthy or cheap. I just wanted him again; wanted his arms around me, to listen to his steady heartbeat as I drifted into a dreamless sleep for the first time in years.


	21. Thorns

Thank you all for reading this story!

Extra hugs for those who review—it means a lot :-)

Desiree and TOWDNWTBN, you are great!

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**Chapter 21- Thorns**

The soft click in the lock brought a smile to Christine's face. The door obediently opened, and she entered Erik's room with silent steps. There was something uncanny about entering Erik's room without his permission. Something against the rules of nature. He was a man who valued his privacy beyond measure, and her past experience of such a daring attempt to satisfy her curiosity could hardly have been described as successful.

Christine pushed away any memories of that night, thinking there was little resemblance between Erik, the man who had held her so passionately in his arms the previous night, and the angry man who had confronted her years ago. Not very satisfied by her hopeful thoughts, she consoled herself, thinking it wasn't curiosity that drove her to such extreme measures this time. She had every right to see her lover, and if the man had been avoiding her all day, he would suffer the consequences. He should never provoke a woman into action if he couldn't handle a surprise!

Christine sighed. She was being unfair to him. He wasn't avoiding her any more than she was avoiding him. Her heart skipped a beat every time she thought he might enter a room she was in, and she kept blushing every time the door opened. She was nothing but thankful for the eventful turmoil the whole house was in, since it hid her own strange behavior. At first, she thought that just a glance at her face would reveal every little detail of the previous night's events in bright and vivid colors, blinding, fascinating and damning, all at the same time, but no such thing happened. She inwardly laughed at herself, expecting the whole world to stop turning, but, in a way, her world had turned at a different pace since last night, and she felt it was written all over her face. Part of her wanted to climb onto the kitchen table and make a very non-ladylike announcement, while another part watched what happened around her with the apathy of an observer from another world. How could they not see? How could they not notice the difference?

In her defense, Emily was so frantic with the preparations for her pretend trip back from Plymouth that she hardly gave her a second glance. Christine had helped her choose a dress suitable for traveling and for hiding the few but now evident signs of her pregnancy. James had brought his mother's cart, and Erik, a small trunk from the Twin House which would be filled with clothes and linens, as if the couple had done some shopping for their new life together. Everything had been thoroughly planned, every detail attended.

Emily and James would spend the night at the Twin House, which was closer to the road to Swidon, so that Emily would not suffer the poor quality of the lane more than was necessary. The two of them would actually travel the 10 miles to Swidon, where James would make sure no other passenger from the village would be using the diligence. Only then would they make their way back to the village. Emily Nicholson was a few hours and a little more than 20 miles away from becoming Emily Duggan. Erik, once more, would be a magician!

And this magician, from last night, was _her lover_. The words had a strange sound to her ears, like a title of some sort, or like another trait of his that belonged only to her, over which she had complete power.  
She found herself inwardly repeating the words during the most inappropriate times of the day, when making tea or folding the few items of Emily's clothes that would be in the trunk. Like a secret waiting to escape her lips and find its own destiny in the world.

Her fingers traced his books, the papers on his desk, his pens, the small bottles with the different colors of ink; she traced them lovingly, as if caressing his smooth skin. She let her eyes wander over the things that had kept him company during the years they were apart. Erik lived a Spartan life. The furniture in the rooms he occupied was sparse and only included items that were absolutely necessary. His room was large and extremely tidy for a man who did the task by himself. A little cold maybe…

Christine contemplated the thought of building a fire, but decided against it as she didn't want to leave any sign of her intrusion. She walked to the window, trying to see whether the lane from Twin House was visible through the fog. This was the path Erik would use to return home, to return to her. The seasonal shower was absolutely annoying, but the raindrops falling on the smooth lake's surface produced a mild, rhythmic sound that comforted her. Other than that, not even a bird's song interrupted the silence. Christine had heard of the ghosts' story and been rather amused by the irony in it, but there was something eerie in the silence that enveloped the Red Door Cottage this afternoon.

She shook the thought away, deciding it was a result of her anxious state and her restless mind. Christine sighed loudly just to hear the sound of her breath leaving her body. She took a look at the room as if looking at the man she had boldly invited to her room the previous night. For a woman with her upbringing, that would probably be considered as the highest rung on the ladder of sin, but no matter how hard she tried, she could never find it in her heart to feel ashamed or doubtful. Was that one more piece of evidence of her emotional and ethical downgrade since she'd lost her child?

Christine pushed that thought away, too. At this moment, she wished so much for Erik to hold her and tell her that everything would be fine, no matter what, but she knew better than that. He would never deceive her, not even to comfort her, and that was a novelty in the man she had met at the Red Door Cottage, the same man who had introduced her into a make-believe world years ago; the same man who had introduced her to a world of pleasure less than a day ago. So many faces…

She looked again at the room, at its richly colored carpets, the dark curtains, the wooden shelves filled with books covering the greater part of one wall. An average bachelor's master bedroom. Well, if there was one thing she was certain of, it was that there was nothing average about Erik. She approached the bookshelves, looking suspiciously at the books. Her fingers searched for a strange gap, a lever of some kind, but found nothing. She diverted her search, looking at the titles. She didn't know how much time she spent gazing at scientific volumes, novels and books written in languages she didn't even recognize, but she found it!

It was a collection of Edgar Allan Poe's prose called _Tales_! The same book on two different shelves. She tried the first one, which was at the level of her eyes. Nothing! A simple book – nothing more – greeted her as she held it in her hands. Its pages opened, waiting to be read.

…_And his eyes have all the seeming of a Demon's that is dreaming,  
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;  
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor  
Shall be lifted-nevermore!_

She abruptly shut the book, thinking it must have been one of Erik's devious tricks to have the book open at that particular page just to scare any potential reader away.  
She was too old for such tricks intended more for Jamie's sake. Christine put the book on the shelf, irritated, and, raising herself on tiptoe, tried to reach the other copy on the higher level, half-disappointed with the thought that it could be just a different edition. The book seemed stuck. She tried again. Nothing moved. A victorious smile formed on her face. It was silly of her to even think it'd be on the lower shelves. With a small jump, she pushed the back of the book inwards. A clicking sound was heard, and a whole panel with heavy books on one side moved outwards. Christine walked into a dark room. She lit all the candles she found just to scare away the eerie feeling in her heart. What did she expect to find?

The room was small and had two doors leading to a watercloset with a massive bathtub – and a wardrobe closet with one of its walls covered by a mirror. That was where he dressed…it was so strange. Such trivial, everyday things held such a mystery when it came to Erik. Christine let her hand stroke the starched shirts, the numerous dark-colored brocade waistcoats. She loved his waistcoats! Her fingers lingered on the one he had worn that day in the music room. The raised patterns on the heavy silk welcomed her like an old friend. The buttons were still missing. She buried her face in the expensive fabric, taking in the scent that was all Erik. She felt tears threatening to flow, and averted her eyes from the clothes. Why was she sad? There was no room for sadness in a dangerous expedition like this! She opened a drawer to reveal an enormous number of cufflinks, each pair resting in its separate open case. A dark polished wooden grid displayed all the cases needed as the gold, the silver and the gemstones sparkled under the candlelight. Christine noticed that many of the cufflinks were missing, leaving their mates to look back at her miserably. No great mystery in that! Erik's custom was to roll his shirtsleeves up, leaving his cufflinks in every possible spot in the house. She herself had found one on the windowsill. Finding its mate, she stroked its engraved surface.

"Don't worry, little one. Your mate is in safe hands and will return to you," she whispered to the lonely cufflink as if waiting to see if it would come to life and answer.

Smiling to herself, she closed the drawer and shifted another panel, this one covered with a mirror. Her own smiling reflection looking back at her was the last thing she saw before her sight was filled by dozens and dozens of masks. One above the other, one beside the other, hanging upon a black velvet wall, Erik's eyeless masks looked at her, blaming, accusing, asking questions she didn't want to answer. Half masks, full-faced masks, black, white, red, made of porcelain, of leather, even of another material which looked like a smooth fabric, more like silk. Angry, irritated, sad, mad, terrifying masks left her breathless, petrified, staring back at them like the fox looking at the hounds, helpless and resigned to their power. For an instant, a tiny glimpse of a second, her stare locked on the most horrifying of them all, and she shut her eyes as if she'd been slapped in the face. She forced herself to open her eyes again, to examine the source of her horror. Her rapid heartbeat was deafening in her ears, and she regretted her curious nature once again. Christine looked at the mask, mustering all her courage against the evil thing that shattered her peace of mind. It was a simple, full-faced white mask glowing under the light of the candle she held in one trembling hand. Nothing strange in the material, nothing strange in the size. The expression carved was as disturbing as it was blank, showing no emotion – nothing of the passion, the feeling, all the other masks so vividly expressed. Just blank.

Christine closed her eyes again as the same frightening feeling filled her, suffocating her. Had he worn it at a time when he was angry? During one of their quarrels when hateful words had been exchanged, hurting them both, poisoning their memory forever? Or maybe at a moment when the Phantom had frightened her with the threat of violence against everyone else except her? Had it been at a time she had been afraid he'd hurt someone? Raoul, maybe?

The knot in her stomach tightened. She opened her eyes reluctantly. No, he hadn't worn that mask when he threatened Raoul. He could never wear that mask. At least, not in the state it was in. It was unfinished. Her eyes narrowed, focusing on its pearly, shining surface. There were no holes in the eyes! A full-faced mask with white, blank eyes, as if closed, and an expression of nothingness. God! _This _was the face of Death! Not _any _death. Not a corpse-like face. This was the face of Erik dead, with his eyes closed, his usual intense expression surrendered to the void.

Christine closed the panel forcefully as if wanting to exorcise the image from her mind. She hastily left after blowing all the candles in the small secret room out with fervent determination. Securing the bookshelf panel back into place so that nothing could reveal what had happened, she lay on Erik's bed, burying her face in his pillow, letting her senses fill with him as he had been the night before – strong, passionate, _alive_. Only after some deep breaths did she feel her heart pace back to normal and her recurring nightmare of the last three years safely retreat, as reality and logic prevailed.

II II II

Soft, impatient steps interrupted the sound of drizzle as Blue's nails collided with the wooden floor of the corridor. Christine leaned against the wall near Erik's bedroom door as Blue betrayed his master's whereabouts. No wonder Erik had had a cat while living at the Opera House. The sound stopped outside her bedroom and made her heart's pace quicken.

"Go eat, boy, go, go," she heard Erik's soft whisper prompting the dog; Blue moved in a brief circle and then ran down the stairs.  
Her heart sank as she heard his bedroom door open. He hadn't knocked on her door. He wasn't seeking her. She shrank into her spot in complete darkness, trying to remain invisible as long as she could.

She watched his broad shoulders as he walked towards the bed. Raindrops shone like diamonds on his jacket. The weak light of his candle provided all the illumination in the room. He stood by the window for a while, deep in his thoughts, as the rain ran down the windowpane. Christine watched him sit with his back turned to her on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched, his head bent, looking tired and defeated. She was amazed he hadn't noticed her yet.

Where was the god who had held her in his arms less than 24 hours ago? She looked at his tortured posture. If she had thought that making love to her would make him a happy man, she was miserably mistaken.

As his hand moved to his mask, she made her presence known. Seeing him unmasked without his consent was the last thing on her mind, and she didn't want to risk his wrath. It didn't take much. She just released the breath she had unconsciously been holding. His mask and his intense stare dominated her first impression of her lover since the passionate night they had shared.

"What are you doing here? It was locked." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

"I had to use extreme measures, since you've been hiding all day," she said half-naughtily, half-accusingly. "I picked the lock!"

"You picked the lock?" He appeared amused by her triumphant smile.

"I remembered the theory, so I put it into action. I left the lights in my room on to trick you," she shamelessly bragged, seeing the half smile on his face. "_The key to a good illusion is redirection of the observer's attention,_" she repeated his own words from a past long gone but not forgotten. "It's been a long time since the last time I practiced."

He looked at her knowingly. His eyes held a sadness that hurt her. Memories of all the sealed, locked boxes with gifts her Angel had given her floated around them. Her task had always been to find a way to open them. One in particular had made her mad. She had tried everything!

"If it is chocolate, it will be ruined by now," she had grunted, annoyed after trying for four days. She had even thrown it against the wall, many times, with no result.

"It is not chocolate," her Angel's disembodied voice had stated, amusement evident in his voice. "But it still may be ruined," he had warned her after giving her the necessary instructions.

It had been a pin with angel wings; its one side crushed, broken from the adventurous ordeal. Tears had welled up in her eyes as she looked at the small, delicate pieces in her hand.

"I've ruined it!"

"It doesn't matter!"

"Is that how you look, Angel?" A long pause had followed her question.

"I had _you _in mind, but now it looks more like me. Throw it away!" His voice had been pained, sad. Her Angel had sounded angry with her.

Two weeks later, she had sung for the managers of the Opera. She had kept the broken angel pin. How could she have been so blind?

"I've missed you today." Her voice brought them both back to reality.

"I don't want to mislead you, Christine. Not again."

How could he read her mind so easily? Was she so simple-minded? What did he mean? That he didn't love her, he didn't care for her?

"Did I displease you …last night?" The question had stung her all day. She was thankful for the dim light that hid her burning face.

In a fluid motion, he was before her. He leaned his palms against the wall just above her shoulders, trapping her in front of him, his face tilted inches way from hers.

"Is that what you think? That you…displease me?" His husky voice sent shivers down her spine. She felt her knees weaken just looking at his eyes. She felt herself unwillingly tremble. Such hunger contained in a man's look might have been frightening if it hadn't matched her own. Christine leaned her head against the wall, not able to support it anymore. He bent towards her ear. She smelled the rain on him.

"Those hateful braids again…" He didn't touch her. How could she feel his hands all over her body when he wasn't even touching her? A cold raindrop landed on her exposed neck. She almost jumped at the feeling. A very satisfied smile was on his face. He knew what he was doing to her.

"You said… for one night only…" His voice trailed off. He sounded indifferent, deadly serious and playful all in one sentence, in one voice. His eyes were burning her, passionately, accusingly, just like as his masks had a while before.

"I said…_if only _for one night…not only for one night—" Her voice broke as she felt his cold lips on her neck where the raindrop had left a wet trail. He followed that trail with soft kisses as his hands removed the pins holding her braids, one by one, in an agonizingly slow manner. How could he evoke that deep yearning, that need within her, just by removing hair pins? If that wasn't pure magic…she felt his fingers unravel her strands, letting her hair fall loose over her shoulders.

"You'll tangle my hair. It will be a mess tomorrow…" But her moan interrupted her complaint. She slid her arms around his lean waist and propped herself against his slender body. She had to have possession of her wits this time, no matter how easy, how natural it felt to let go, to lose control as she lost her mind every time he touched her.

"So last night wasn't enough…" he said against her hair. His uneven breathing wasn't the only evidence of his need. She smiled against his jacket, feeling powerful. She wasn't alone in this game of need.

"Enough? _Enough is a mediocre word for mediocre people_," she quoted his reply from one time when she had complained that they had practiced enough. A deep, hearty laugh escaped his throat, and she felt she had pulled off the greatest feat in the world.

Erik lifted her up gently, holding her by the waist, bringing her face to the level of his eyes. He kissed her on the lips lightly, still smiling with that half smile that warmed her heart.

"If you wish for _no one to know _where you spent your nights, you should go to your room. I'll find you there in a while." He was looking straight into her eyes. "Emily's room is directly beneath this one," he explained, probably seeing her confusion.

"Emily isn't spending the night in her room tonight."

"You are a smart girl, but let's not make it a habit. Your room is already warm, thanks to the fire. Let me change out of these wet clothes…"

Christine frowned as she felt the ground under her feet again. Was it her impression, or was he addressing her as he would Blue? She looked at him as he walked towards the bookshelves. He seemed ready to push the hidden lever. Suddenly, imagining him opening the panel made the hair on her nape rise.

"You're right. We'd better go to my room. You'll catch a cold here." Her voice was trembling. His penetrating stare followed her as she lifted a book from his desk. Had he guessed what she'd done?

"What is this book?"

"I found it in your library, and since _Les Mille et Une Nuits _had a tragic ending –"

"I never catch cold," he said, taking the book from her hands. "_The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night! _This is not a book for a lady," he stated.

"What are you talking about? This is the English translation of the book you burned!" She resented that! She couldn't let him treat her like a child! She tried to take back her book, but he held it tightly behind his back.

"I didn't _burn _the book! It was an accident. And this is Richard Francis Burton's translation."

She looked at him defiantly.

"Let's just say this is the _unexpurgated _translation," he tried to explain. "Let's say… the man took the opportunity to add some quite scandalous appendices to the book you intended to read in the first place. Englishmen do need some help…"

Christine felt her face grow hot. She had heard of these kinds of books, which even unmarried women read secretly in their boudoirs. "And what is it doing in a gentleman's room?" she asked defensively, trying to diminish her shame.

Erik shrugged his shoulders. "Since James had grown taller, I'd removed some books I thought he'd better not read at his age. He's very nosy, and the last thing I needed was for him to appear before Mary's mother with Burton's book in hand. It had only recently been published and made quite an impact."

Christine blushed again and walked to the door. Her curiosity was piqued. Maybe she should have spent more time at this library rather than in his wardrobe. Erik looked at her intensely, probably trying to read her thoughts. She averted her eyes from his face as if this could help her.

"Would you prefer darkness tonight?" She uttered the question as if asking which tea flavor he desired at the moment. Christine dared to steal a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, pretending she was having a hard time opening the door. For a woman who had picked that same lock mere hours ago, it seemed a ridiculous excuse to stall her way out.

Her unspoken question didn't elude him. The smile still lingering on his face from their previous talk faded. His stare on her turned cold. She locked her eyes on him, not avoiding his face now, trying to silently apologize for what she hadn't even dared say out loud. Would he change his mind about coming to her room?

"So, I'm not going to find out about Mr. Burton's interpretation of _Arabian Nights_?" She tried to use a mischievous tone that she hardly felt at the moment.

"Leave the light on. I want to see you," he replied to her first question in a warm, even, passionate voice. "And don't worry about Mr. Burton," he paused as a sly half smile appeared on his face "_I _have read it."

Christine smiled at him and walked to her room. She had heard what he really meant under his words, under his playful tone. He wouldn't take his mask off, not even in the dark.

II II II

Christine awakened as the smell of fresh coffee invaded her senses. She opened her eyes, stretching her muscles like a cat under the heavy bed covers. Her lover was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her. She had come to recognize that kind of intense stare on Erik's face, and moaned in pleasure as she stretched again, only to watch his eyes darken. He didn't say a word. He kept looking at her, fully dressed and shaved, as the coffee he had brought became cold. There were other habits of her lover's she had come to recognize as his own, too. Habits that made her blush, even recalling them, and habits that made her sad. Like his self-consciousness, his need to wear his shirt after the intimate times they had shared together. She couldn't complain. She had curled up against his otherwise naked body and slept in his arms, spent, tired and content in the knowledge that pleasure and time would unravel all the mysteries, all the secrets he kept from her.

He gave her the cup, brushing her hair away from her face. She took a sip, making a grimace. It wasn't hot anymore. She kept his hand in hers, marveling at the difference in their sizes. His fingers were long, elegant, his palm large. Christine returned the empty cup to him with an expression of mock disappointment, and traced the long life line in his palm. She brought his palm to the level of her eyes as though examining it, and spread light kisses on the lifeline, as she had wanted to do since the first time he had entered her room after the awful ginger cookies. She smiled against his hand, recalling the memory, biting him lightly.

"This is for the cold coffee."

"You are the one who overslept."

"And you were watching me sleeping!" She placed his hand on her face, forcing him to cup her cheek and stroke it. She was in a playful mood this morning, like all silly people who thought life owed them happiness. She intended to drink every drop of happiness that was in her share. "Aren't you bored with watching me sleep?" she asked lightheartedly, not really expecting an answer.

"I'm jealous of your slumber." His tone wasn't playful. "Where do you go in your dreams? Where do you go when you're not with me?" The longing in his voice penetrated her. If only she could hear his voice during her nightmares…

"My dreams are so boring," she replied, avoiding his eyes. "I could tell you where I want to go this morning, though."

"Where?" His tone was guarded, either because of her lie or his own embarrassment at revealing too much.

"I want to see your garden!" She silenced his protests, barely touching his lips with her fingers. Christine smiled proudly, detecting no sign of his usual apprehension whenever she touched his face. Maybe that was all that was needed. Familiarity, intimacy.  
"Look! The sun is shining, and Emily won't be back until noon."

"It won't last," he muttered as his eyes focused on her lips. Having power over Erik was a strange feeling. She propped herself against his chest, steadying herself by clinging to the pockets of his dark waistcoat. Her lips brushed the visible side of his face lightly. She trembled inside at his possible reaction, but kept on until she found his ear.

"We will be home before the heavy rain starts," she promised, doubting the ingeniousness of her idea at the moment.

Christine felt his cold touch on her bare shoulders, then on her arms as he put some distance between them.

"We definitely could use a walk right now," he said, and left her in the room to dress.

II II II

"God, Erik! This is magnificent!" Christine's eyes sparkled as she looked at the roses in the greenhouse. Hundreds of roses in every possible color and shade bloomed under the glass ceiling of the unique structure that lay between the two wings of the Twin House. Each color occupied a different area, separated by short, narrow footpaths, creating a large-scale rainbow. Christine walked among the roses, noticing the differences in the petals, the leaves, the shapes.

"A sea of colors!"

"Do you like them?" he asked, pride evident in his voice, standing behind her.

Christine nodded, overwhelmed by the sight. His forearm slid around her waist, stopping her in her tracks. She felt his mask, his cold lips on her hair.

"I could drown in your hair. You should always let it loose."

She looked at their entwined fingers on her waist, and brought his hand to her mouth for a light kiss.

"Have you named the roses?" she asked, walking towards the section with the red ones, dragging him by the hand.

"Of course! They are my _Christines_," he replied mockingly, but something in his voice made her turn to look at him.

"Close your eyes." A devious smirk lingered on his face.

"Why?"

"Trust me," he whispered in her ear when her eyes were closed. "Feel this." He guided her hand so that it touched something lying on his open palm. "There…use only your fingertips. Be very gentle. It's fragile. What do you feel?"

"It's like velvet," she said with her eyes shut. "It's very smooth…but there is a kind of pile…"

"Open your eyes."

"It's a petal! It's almost black!"

"Sight is, many times, distracting. If you hadn't touched it first, you'd just have been impressed by its appearance. The effect would never have been the same."

"Is it black?" She moved the petal under the light to examine it.

"It is such a deep red that only in the sunshine can you see its real color. It needs light.  
Smell it."

He chuckled at her grimace of disappointment.

"Imagine if we could combine the scent of this rose," he pointed at a yellow rose near them, "with the petal texture and the color of this one. A fragrant rose that looks like this." A single rose with five nearly black petals appeared in his hand out of nowhere.

"The perfect rose!" Christine ran her fingers over the petals, pausing at the few sharp thorns on the long stem. "What about the thorns? Will you keep them?"

"There are always thorns, Christine."

"Could you imagine it the other way around?" she asked teasingly at his condescending tone, taking the yellow rose in hand. "The awful smell combined with this boring rose?"

"A misshapen accident of nature." His tone was cold, indifferent.

Christine closed her eyes, letting her favorite scent invade her senses.

"I love this scent!"

"Why are words so easy for women?" Erik asked, rather like a scientist interested in a fact. The light scorn in his voice didn't escape Christine, who glanced at him, furrowing her brows.

"You must have spent endless hours here. So much effort… don't you love your accomplishment… your roses?"

"I have a fondness for them, but I could live without them," he stated.

"Why do you combine survival with love?"

"Can you live away from something you really love?"

"Life showed me that I can…" her voice trailed off.

"That you can?" His voice had an edge to it that had been missing completely before. Christine felt a shiver go down her spine.

"That I can…that I could…what difference does it make?" She looked at his stormy eyes, trying to find the true reason behind this mood change.

"We have to go back. Emily will be home by now."

II II II

"When I heard her shrill voice asking to see the kind of lace edging my linens, I couldn't believe it!" Emily was beaming. Her cheeks were flushed from excitement. "Mrs. Conrad concluded after thorough examination that only _abroad _could one find such excellent needlework! Imagine! Jane and Gillian's linens helped me prove my marriage to the village gossip! I have the ghosts to thank, too!"

Erik threw a glance at Christine, who smiled back at him at their own private joke.  
The bell at the gate rang, and Emily rose from the sofa she had been sitting on.

"Jamie is back, and I haven't changed my clothes yet! How could you stand me talking for so long?" Her enthusiasm poured from every pore of her body. She looked so relieved. "I'll open the door," she said, exiting the room, stealing a quick glance at her sparkling ring.

Christine walked towards the window absentmindedly, playing with a curl, looking at the full moon.

"My hair gets awfully tangled when I don't braid it," she complained.

"You need to comb your hair very carefully. Actually, you need _someone_ to do that for you…" He threw his voice in her ear for only her to hear, as if they weren't alone in the room. She shivered at his tone. "Someone persistent and gentle but fully dedicated to the task…" He was behind her now. "We can't have these curls—" His voice trailed off.  
Christine's eyes followed his stare outside the window. A cart was coming towards the house at an unusually high speed. Jamie's horse followed, galloping behind it.

"Wasn't Jamie supposed to return the cart to his mother's store?"

"That is not Mrs. Oliveer's cart. There's something wrong…" She heard Erik's voice, but before she had turned to look at him, he was out of the room.

Christine ran towards the front door, which had been left open, with her heart racing as if she had run a mile. Emily was still standing by the front stairs, her eyes locked on the cart Mr. Hamilton was pulling up a few steps away from them. Erik had already half climbed onto its back, bending over something Christine could not see from where she stood. She rose up on her toes to get a better view of what he now seemed to be examining, and wondered whether she should bring a lantern. When she looked at him again, he was walking towards them, carrying what looked like a large ball of clothing in his arms. Her breath caught at the sight under the moonlight. It was Jamie he was carrying. His face, his clothes…everything was covered in blood.


	22. The Fool

I hope you all had a nice, interesting week! I sure had an interesting one!

Thank you for reading this story, and thank you for brightening my days with your reviews. (Shameless hint? Maybe…)

My eternal gratitude to Desiree and TOWDNWTBN—hugs, girls!

Oops! I revealed something about TOWDNWTBN's identity, but I guess you had guessed that… ;-)

* * *

**Chapter 22 - The Fool**

"Just tell me he's alive. Please, just tell me he's alive." Emily's whisper became muffled as she pressed her hand over her mouth in a gesture of absolute despair. Her glassy eyes were locked on Erik's shoulders as he hurried towards the stairs at the end of the hall, gently carrying Jamie's bloodied body in his arms. He didn't seem to notice any of the women following him with their eyes. His look was cold as ice, his lips pressed firmly together into a hard line.

"Is he alive?" Emily's faint whisper made Christine turn towards her. The blonde woman was so pale, her face white as a sheet, and she looked as if she would faint at any second. Christine was afraid to even ask Erik such a question.

"If he weren't alive, Mr. Hamilton wouldn't have brought him here," she heard herself whisper back to Emily, putting an arm around her shoulder and guiding her towards the library. She was deeply appalled by the logic of her argument. She couldn't comprehend how, at a time like this, her mind had the clarity to think of such a reasonable answer. It seemed almost inhuman! Thankfully, Emily found comfort in her words and took a few deep breaths.

"Why don't you stay with Mr. Hamilton for a while, and I'll see if Erik needs some help?" Only then did Emily raise her head and notice Mr. Hamilton standing forgotten at the front door. He looked at them with piercing eyes, not daring to step in yet. "See if you can find out what happened," Christine whispered in Emily's ear, thinking it would be far safer to leave her in the library than have her near Jamie at the moment.

Christine ran up the stairs and into Jamie's room just in time to see Erik placing him gently on his bed. The boy groaned in pain, but his eyes didn't open. Erik hastily lit some candles and a lantern with the same unreadable, cold expression on his face. The light gradually filling the room gave Christine a clearer view of the boy's injuries.

"Did he fall off the horse?" Christine asked Erik, doubting he would give her an answer even if he heard the question. The deep frown on his face was more a sign of sheer concentration than anything else.

"This is not from a fall." She barely heard him as he spoke through gritted teeth. His voice had a warning edge she recognized from long ago. She dared no other question, no other sound. It was a difficult task as Erik sat near Jamie on the bed and started cleaning his wounds with a wet cloth. The lantern shed a bright yellow light on the boy's face, illuminating cuts and bruises she hadn't seen earlier. Christine held her breath, pressing her hand to her chest, as if that would be enough to slow down her racing heartbeat.

Jamie's face had been reduced to pulp. He was unrecognizable, and Christine had to try very hard to locate his familiar features under the swollen, bloodied tissue. A large gash started from his left eye, going all the way up into his saffron hair.

"This was made by a boot. See those small, dark spots? These are from the sole…the heel." Erik's voice was so cold, like steel cutting the tension in the room. For once, Christine wasn't sure if she wanted him to talk. The image of someone kicking Jamie's sweet, freckled face after looking into his lively, intelligent eyes was ripping at her heart. How could someone, anyone, do this to a child?

"This is from a punch," Erik added in that twisted, calm tone of his, brushing the cloth over the dried blood on Jamie's nose with amazing gentleness. The water in the basin was already red. "This is from a kick, too." He didn't need to point at James' still-bleeding upper lip. Christine looked horrified, not knowing where one bruise ended and where the other started. She felt tears blinding her, running down her face, but brushed them off quickly, not wanting to appear weak at a moment like this. She took some deep breaths and sat on the other side of the bed. Erik had already changed the water in the white ceramic bowl. Yet the deep blue porcelain flowers at its bottom soon became invisible again, lost under the increasing redness.

"Will you help me take off his shirt?" He held Jamie's battered body in a sitting position as Christine tried to remove the shirt from the boy's shoulders as gently as possible.

"Wait! Don't!" She froze at the alarm in Erik's tone. Out of the corner of her eye, standing behind Jamie, with one sleeve of his bloodied shirt in her hands, Christine followed Erik's gaze. The boy's hand was a mass of swollen, torn, crushed flesh and bones, the fingers pointing upwards at an unnatural angle. A gasp escaped her throat, and Christine quickly averted her eyes from the sight as the lights in the room seemed to blur before her. She had felt this before. This pounding noise in her ears, as the colors seemed to blend until there was only black. She couldn't faint. At least not now. She bit her lip hard until she tasted her own blood, hoping the pain would help clear her mind. Bending her head, she tried to diminish the dizziness without attracting Erik's attention, but her breath caught in her throat. She gasped again as her eyes tried to focus on the red smudge she had seen. Her vision cleared, her eyes finally able to concentrate on the deep welt that appeared on the child's back like a red snake.

"My God! Has someone whipped him?" she asked more harshly than she had intended, sickened by the violence, the cruelty of the wounds.

"I wouldn't go that far…this is from a belt."

Christine groaned in frustration. His tone was maddening. Neutral, as if he were discussing gardening. She shivered at the thought. Had it been only a few hours ago when she had seen the nearly-black rose? How could such beauty and such brutality fit together into one day?

Christine first saw Erik's face moving towards Jamie's mouth, and then she heard the boy's raspy whisper.  
"I didn't run…" From where she was standing, still behind the boy, Christine didn't have a chance to look at Jamie's face. She was thankful for that. Simply hearing his pained childish voice, his ragged breathing…that was enough. Tears stormed down her face, and she swept them away with her sleeve, not caring whether she appeared strong anymore. Erik's hand replaced hers, holding Jamie's nape, and she walked away, leaving the shirt hanging from his shoulder. Christine moved to the shadows at the other end of the room, still seeing Jamie's battered profile. His eye was so bruised at the moment that she doubted he could see through the narrow slit, but he seemed determined to speak, half sitting on his bed, his hand awkwardly resting on his lap. She tried to compose herself before letting the child see her.

"Erik… he said he would show me… what I should truly learn…" A stream of tears glowed, running down his cheeks. The vein on Erik's temple throbbed, creating an alarming sight. Other than that and his reddened face, no sign betrayed tension or anxiety as his velvet voice whispered to the child, soothing, comforting.

"Don't worry, Jamie. You are here now." He slowly gentled the boy's body onto the pillows. "Don't worry. No one is going to hurt you here. You are with me." His voice broke, and for the first time, he seemed to fight for control over himself and the quivering muscle on his chin.

"He said I would never write again…"

"Jamie, I want you to empty your mind of worries and try to relax. Get some sleep. In a few days, the pain will pass and everything will be fine…" His tone was serious and reassuring, but his voice became gradually lower as he added, "After all, this is not your writing hand…"

Christine heard his words with great effort. Jamie's face calmed only when his left hand was taken by Erik's hand into a strong, tight grip. The boy let out a peculiar sound; something between laughter and a groan escaped his lips. That provoked a cough, which brought more groans and bleeding from his injured upper lip. However, he looked serene, and as soon as the cough subsided, he drifted into a deep sleep.

"Is Mr. Hamilton downstairs?" Erik's voice sounded neutral and controlled again.

"I think he is…"

"Please ask him to call the doctor immediately. And bring a pair of scissors for the shirt."

II II II

"Would you like some milk in your tea, Mr. Hamilton?"

"Yes, please -" the man replied in his usual way of speaking, as if he were leaving his sentence unfinished. Christine handed him the cup and threw a quick glance at Erik, who was leaning against a bookshelf with his arms folded over his chest in a relaxed manner. His entire face was a mask of indifference, as if this were any other typical evening, and he, in the role of the grumpy host, were entertaining company at the Red Door Cottage. Christine was amazed at his self-control and his acting abilities. Only the erratically throbbing vein on his temple seemed to mark a visible countdown of his thinning patience.

"I'm sure everything will be fine with your boy…" Mr. Hamilton said, as if commenting on the weather. Erik's lips became a thin line, but no word came out of his mouth.

"When I lived in Bath, I had a manservant, too…he was a very agreeable young man…"

Christine noticed Erik's fists clench beneath his arms. For a second, she thought his jaw would break with the force he used to grit his teeth. Amazed, she watched the same mask of feigned boredom spread over his visible features again. She left Emily's cup of tea on the table beside her seat. Looking at the blonde woman's trembling hands, now fidgeting with her dress, Christine doubted Emily could hold a plate without causing an accident. The tension was palpable in the room, and only Mr. Hamilton seemed dangerously unaware of it. The sound of his spoon stirring the tea, randomly tapping the ceramic sides of the cup in a slow, irritating rhythm, sounded deafening to her ears.

"Very thoughtful of you, Mr. Hamilton, to have already arranged for Dr. McKinnan to come along with Mrs. Oliveer before bringing Jamie here. You have saved us crucial time!" she said, attracting the man's attention and a beaming smile. Even though it was rude to interrupt him, no story of any manservant would be appreciated at the moment, and she wanted to remind Erik of the man's helpful intervention.

"I had hoped I could have been more helpful…maybe if I had been in the village today…I had just arrived from a hunting trip at Exmoor when I saw Mrs. Oliveer…she was very frightened…"

His words had drawn Erik's attention. He looked at the man, his now furrowed brow completely concealing the color and expression of his eyes. Still, Christine doubted Mr. Hamilton realized the fragility of this bizarre theatrical scene taking place in the library, where everyone pretended that everything was fine.

"Where did you find him?" Erik's voice had a chilling quality, regardless of the calm, quiet tone he used. Christine wondered if she was the only one alarmed by it, and saw Emily's stare locked on Erik's figure. Mr. Hamilton stirred in his spot and took another sip of tea.

"Your boy or Jacob?"

"James. His name is James," Erik said with a weary indifference that never reached his eyes. Now Christine wished Mr. Hamilton hadn't offered to wait for Dr McKinnan to end Jamie's examination so that he might take him back to the village.

"He was lying in the shop's basement. Mrs. Oliveer found the courage to call me only after Jacob had left the store."

"And Jacob?"

Christine felt the hair at her nape rising as she heard Erik's voice. She tried to block any other memory related to that tone, to that voice. So soft, so calm, so utterly misleading.

"After he got completely drunk…I guess he went to the house…"

Christine imagined poor Jamie, battered and lying helpless in a dark, damp basement until his stepfather was drunk enough to be considered harmless. She felt cold and put her arms around herself, trying to drive the images away. Walking towards the window, she heard Mr. Hamilton's question.

"Do you like hunting, M. Rochelle?" The man's voice had a tone of real interest.

"Not particularly." Christine shuddered at Erik's voice, thinking she had unwillingly watched him in the roles of both the hunter and the prey. The first days after she had left the Opera House, she had dreaded reading the paper or eavesdropping on Raoul's sisters' gossip.

"I believe it's a great sport…" The man sounded enthusiastic.

"I fail to see the bravery in adult men hunting animals with the convenience of a rifle. Pulling the trigger… riding on horseback… can't be considered the epitome of fair play," Erik said sarcastically, mimicking the way Mr. Hamilton cut his sentences. "In my opinion, if you want to kill someone, you should use your own hands, give at least a chance to the opponent. Otherwise, it is too…impersonal."

Christine shivered, hearing his matter-of-fact tone. Mr. Hamilton shifted again in his seat, looking uncomfortable.

"Imagine the absurd case in which someone could push a button or pull a lever, and all the deer in the forest would be simultaneously killed. What would become of the importance of life if taking it were so easy?" Erik concluded, raising his brow at his irritated guest.

"That is a ridiculous thought," Mr. Hamilton replied, flushed. "It is ignoble..."

"What defines nobility when it comes to killing? The reason, the purpose it serves, _the style_?" Erik's voice had that alluring quality which could make Christine shiver in pleasure. But not this time. Not with these words.

"You do have to agree… that not every life has the same value...not every man's life is worth the same…the life of our loved ones, for example…or the life of a nobleman, or a wealthy man in comparison to…" Mr. Hamilton flashed an innocent smile at Christine, as if soliciting her approval of his comment. She looked at him, stunned, wondering whether the man had been so offended by Erik's previous remarks, or if he was unconsciously testing his host's patience.

Erik threw a wild look at his guest who, seemingly oblivious to the tension, stood up and gazed at the table which housed the Spanish chess set.

"What a great work of art! I've tried to order it or something similar, anyway… at a well-known craftsman's workshop. The price was excruciatingly high for me…and I can't take a deposit from any client… with only a description, without even a drawing, a sketch…"

Christine watched a half smile form on Erik's exposed face. He looked almost pleased with himself as he walked towards the chessboard table in the slow, elegant way of his that had always seemed unearthly to her. Erik possessed an eerie quality tonight - so calm, so composed, so collected. His fingers barely touched the lever, and the thick, heavy crystal moved to the side while the board slowly moved upwards, revealing the beautiful pawns. He took one black bishop in hand, and the heavy, carved black marble piece contrasted with the extreme paleness of his palm. Christine knew they were equally cold.

"Did you know that in French, the bishop is called 'le fou'? It means the madman, the fool…" he stated enigmatically. "Remind me of the price you offered me for this, Mr. Hamilton…remember…it is a piece of unique craftsmanship…one could describe it as a work of art. Your client will be very satisfied…"

His voice was like warm honey, alluring, tempting, like something one knows is dangerous but finds even more appealing because of that. Christine had to concentrate very hard to guard her wits from the spell of that voice. Mr. Hamilton had his eyes locked on the chess set, where Erik's inhumanly long fingers moved another pawn – a crystal one this time. Its rough edges looked razor-sharp.

The Englishman had an unreadable expression on his face, and uttered a price twice as preposterous as the one he had mooted the last time. Christine wondered who was able to pay such an absurd amount of money for a chessboard and watched Erik discreetly put the black bishop into his pocket. With his now free hand, he brushed at a dark, red spot on his rolled sleeve: Jamie's dried blood. The spot remained the same. The expression on his face was odd, as if he were smiling at the stain's stubbornness. In one swift, fluid motion – Christine would surely have missed it if she hadn't had her eyes fixed on him, watching him so closely – Erik lifted the heavy table and threw it forcefully across to the fireplace. The elegant artifact shattered into pieces. Splinters of wood, pieces of crystal and black marble spread around the room as the unique work of art turned into ruins in a matter of seconds, colliding with the stone fireplace, producing a noise heard like thunder in the middle of the night.

"What do you think it is worth now, Mr. Hamilton? What is its value?" Erik asked in that same, painfully beautiful voice before leaving the room.

II II II

"I fixed the hand the best I could. We will know how functional it will be after a month or so and, surely only after the boy wakes. I've told his mother what signs she should look for and to call me…" Dr. McKinnan said, turning towards Mrs. Oliveer, who was standing two steps behind him in a miserable state.

"You will have to tell us, too," Emily interrupted the man. "Jamie will stay here."

"What do you mean,'wake'?" Christine asked, looking at the man before her. Dr. McKinnan was a good-looking man in his fifties, with a thick moustache and gentle eyes.

"It is not uncommon for people with Jamie's injuries, especially those to the head…"  
The man paused, seeing the women's distressed faces. "The loss of blood and the head injury…imagine a type of deep sleep his body needs to recover," the doctor said hopefully.

"And when will he wake up?" Emily dared to utter the question.

"I don't really know. But I have seen it before…when I worked in Lancashire, I treated many coal miners' injuries that could have been considered very serious at first. I will check on him tomorrow." Obviously, the man hated delivering bad news.

"Did all your patients awaken, Dr. McKinnan?" Erik's voice startled them all. It was heard loud and clear, as if he were standing near them and not at the end of the hall, deep in the shadows, his burning eyes watching the three women and the doctor talking at the front door.

"No. Not everyone was saved." The man sounded apologetic.

Christine started walking towards Erik but saw him raise his hand in a silent sign to stay where she was. He abruptly turned and disappeared from her sight, like smoke.

II II II

"It was Jamie's fault. He knows how Jacob is when he's drinking. And he's always so restless when he arrives…"

Stunned, Christine looked at Mrs. Oliveer, who was sitting on the edge of her chair as if ready to jump up and leave. The woman was in bad shape, but Christine couldn't be sure if that was a result of the night's events or a constant condition. The doctor had taken her cart to return to the village after Mr. Hamilton's hasty departure, and Mrs. Oliveer had asked to spend the night by her son. Whether that was out of care for Jamie or fear for her own wellbeing was also a mystery. However, when Emily had asked her to describe to them what had happened, the woman complied and started talking, taking mouthfuls of the malt whiskey Christine had served to her.  
"Jamie brought back the cart and walked into the shop, holding a little bird in his hands. Its wing seemed broken, and he'd always had this habit of taking in every stray he found in the streets. I told him it was a filthy habit, but…"

Christine looked at the woman's dirty clothes and wondered how much filthier a stray could have been. Emily was also looking at the woman, furious.

"When Jacob saw Jamie in the store with his nice clothes and everything, he got absolutely mad. Jacob is strong like an ox, but when he drinks, he can't control his strength. That's the problem! He took the bird from Jamie's hands, and crushed it against the wall." She took another sip of her drink.

Christine felt the hair at her nape rising at the woman's words. She was only glad Erik wasn't present to listen to this. Emily stifled a moan behind her hand.

"Jacob said something to Jamie that I couldn't hear, but the boy turned to leave. That was a grave mistake! Jacob always gets mad when Jamie doesn't listen…I've told him a thousand times…" Another sip. "Jacob started laughing, and, for a minute, I thought Jamie'd been saved this time. But when I saw him taking off his belt …" Her voice lowered.

"'Do you think Jane and Gillian will protect you, son? You're too far away from them now to hide under their skirts,' that's what Jacob shouted in front of the store for the entire village to hear, but Jamie didn't answer. He just kept walking. For a moment, I was proud. My boy has grown up. Almost a man now…'It's time to ask for a raise, son! If you want to stay there, the Frenchman must open his wallet for Jacob.'" Mrs. Oliveer's voice was a barely audible whisper, and she kept looking at the door, as if afraid it would burst open and Erik would come in. "Jamie stopped and looked at Jacob laughing again. 'No money, no Red Cottage for you, son! No fancy clothes, no lessons…' Jamie knows how Jacob is…why didn't he run?"

Christine shut her eyes to drive the images away. That Jacob, strong as an ox, dragging Jamie's little body across the store, shoving him down the stairs to the basement. She had seen the injuries, she knew what happened. The sound of Blue's paws on the hall floor alarmed her. The dog was Erik's noisy shadow. She opened the door, but not a sign indicated the man had been there. Christine knew better than that. Blue was walking slowly towards the kitchen, wagging his tail.

"Jamie will be safe with Mr. Rochelle." She heard Mrs. Oliveer's voice speaking to Emily. She stole a glance at the woman, who looked at Emily's belly and whispered, "Pressure him to marry you now. Threaten him, do whatever it takes. If Father John knew about this… men get weak when a woman is expecting their child. I know he's hideous, but he's so wealthy. Fortify yourself now, or you'll suffer later…"

Christine shut the door behind her with a thud, leaving the two women in the library. She desperately needed some fresh air. Poor Emily! Only a woman as gross as Mrs. Oliveer could be so vulgar, so insensitive. Wouldn't she leave anyone unharmed? And her words regarding Erik…why did what a disgusting woman like her said about him hurt so much?

Opening the kitchen door, she let the cold air hit her face, numbing her, taking all the ugly feelings away. Her eyes caught Erik's silhouette a few feet away from her, bathed in the moonlight. He stood at the wall, his palms pressed to the stone, his head bowed. He turned his head towards her slightly, only a golden glowing eye visible beneath his mask. Once again, he lifted his hand in that silent request to be left alone. Their eyes locked on his hand, which trembled wildly in the air before he let it fall by his side, clenched into a firm fist. Christine didn't obey this time. She needed him too much. Standing behind him, she put her hands around his waist, clasping them together around his firm stomach. He was gasping, as if fighting for every breath. His heartbeat thundered against his ribs. Only then did Christine realize he was fighting back tears. For a man as proud as Erik, even tears in the dark were a sign of weakness. She remembered with shame the only time she had seen him crying. Her grip on him became tighter; she wanted to shield him, console him, take the pain away.

He took her hand and pressed it hard against his cold exposed cheek. She felt no tears running, only that his lips were moving. She thought he was gasping for air again, but she heard his soft whisper. "A fool, such a fool…" Her ears couldn't pick up anything else afterwards. They stayed in their embrace until he had regained his composure and his breathing was even again. She felt his cold lips brush her palm. He was in control again, strong and collected, and that was perhaps the most frightening thing. He turned to face her, still in her arms since she refused to let him go, cupping her face with his cold palms. His golden eyes were burning her as she tried to read him and failed once more. He pulled her protectively against his body, lifting her from the ground, and brushed his lips over hers in a painfully gentle manner that, for no reason, brought fresh tears to her eyes.

"Now go see how James is," he ordered against her lips before leaving her on the ground. "I want to be alone for a while. I have to take care of something." Christine moved away, glancing at him over her shoulder. He seemed to be sand slipping through her fingers.

II II II

Christine entered Erik's room after a soft, hesitant knock on his door. She didn't wait for an answer. A tremor passed through her as her stare landed on his bed. Erik walked through the panel leading to his closet, which was now open, its secret exposed. His shirt was wide open, revealing his broad chest. A shiver ran down her spine, reminding her that only this morning her lips had brushed light kisses on the hair there. He had seemed so vulnerable then, so human. So long ago…

He continued getting dressed with his eyes fixed on her face in silent challenge, his cold expression contrasting with the constant frown of his mask. He buttoned his waistcoat. His long fingers moved swiftly, deftly. There was no sign of the man who had fought for control over his trembling hands. He had heard Mrs. Oliveer. Now Christine had no doubt about it. Erik's golden eyes locked with hers, daring her to speak, before his gaze turned towards the bed, and his visible brow furrowed. Three long, thin pieces of cord made of catgut with the familiar sticks attached to the nooses lay on the bedcover. His Punjab lassos.


	23. Certainties Disappear

Greetings to all!

Life has become weird lately, and the only thing we can do is show our love to our loved ones – if I sound like a cheap fortune cookie please forgive me.

This chapter was a dive into Erik's soul for me, and one more bridge for our heroes to cross…

As always, Desiree and TOWDNWTBN have worked their magic.

Thank you all for reading and reviewing. Even though this story is written and completed long ago, posting it here, now, gives it a new life, a whole new dimension. We are in this together…

* * *

**Chapter 23- Certainties Disappear**

Christine braced herself, feeling that what would happen next could very easily be one of her "windows in time": the crucial moments where one decision, one lucky chance, one fateful choice could determine her whole life, many people's lives. She shuddered as she looked at the catgut cords lying on Erik's bed. There was no room for misunderstanding of what they were or what his intentions were regarding their use. Erik looked at her with a cold expression which changed to a look of indifference; the look of apathy on his face and the decisiveness in his posture made her shiver in despair. His decision had been made. He was going to kill a man, a man who was sick enough to beat a child so brutally that his life was in danger, a man _strong like an ox_. Why did she keep hearing Mrs. Oliveer's sickening voice in her mind again and again? She looked again at his bed.

"I have never known what the sticks are for," she said, looking pointedly at the sticks attached to the nooses. She was proud of her steady voice. He raised his brow at her comment.

"They tighten the garrote. It works more like a tourniquet than anything else. They are not necessary, but help a lot." His chilling voice had a mocking cruelty. He had seen the fear in her eyes. She knew she could not fool him. If there was a mask made of flesh, a mask made of determination and resolution, that was Erik's face as it looked back at her. Her lover's face, her lover's voice were obscured by this darkness. Behind this face of a stranger making preparations for a murder. The knot in her stomach got tighter.

In front of her was a man ready to share his deadly methods with her in an impassive, cold way. He seemed at peace with the choice he had made. The choice that would take him away from her once and for all. Shaken at the thought, she felt herself trembling violently. Closing her eyes, Christine wished none of this had happened and that she had a chance to turn back time, warn James, keep him safe. She wished she had _Erik _before her, the man she had met when she arrived at the Red Door Cottage, not this dangerous stranger who looked at her as if she were transparent, as if she meant nothing to him. Erik was complicated enough when he was calm and placid, but now…

Christine contemplated her options. She could burst into tears, faint, scream in despair, try to hold him by her side. It seemed so easy at the moment just to let all the anguish flow; ask for his support, his strength. Erik was a compassionate man. He wouldn't deny her that. She could make him stay, but for how long?

Or she could try using _his _weapons against him – be cunning, never lose control. It seemed so unbelievably hard at the moment, so pointless. Christine took a deep breath and walked towards his desk. She poured some brandy into a glass and sipped, wincing at the burning sensation, hoping she'd find some of the strength she needed. She left the glass back on the desk, not offering him a sip. Their ritual was broken, and he watched her every move through narrowed eyes. A smirk formed on his face. He didn't need words to understand her. A broken ritual would be a secondary loss that night.

"And what was that in the garden, then? A farewell kiss before going to kill or being killed?" Her tone was sarcastic, stern, but her heart trembled. She just wished she could stop Mrs. Oliveer's words from echoing in her head. _Jacob is strong like an ox_. Christine had never seen an ox in her life, but descriptions and drawings were enough. Just the memory of Jamie's battered hand was enough to make her dizzy again.

"I do not intend to be killed. Do you have such little faith in me? In my _abilities_?" He raised his brow mockingly. In a strange way, he seemed satisfied. It was as if he enjoyed revealing this side of himself to her.

"What about getting caught? Have you thought about that? They will hang you …" Horrid images filled her mind.

"I think I can manage to sneak into the house '_like a ghost'_!" He sounded genuinely amused. "Regardless of my lack of… practice, I think I will be able to ambush a drunk man," Erik said cynically, as if the task didn't offer any interest, any challenge. He talked as if he were referring to a sport, a hobby set aside due to everyday life's demanding schedule. He seemed so distant. His stare on her so cold.

Christine looked at his bold, arrogant posture as he towered over her. He was trying to scare her, to drive her away! Realizing his intentions, maybe for the first time in her life, filled her with enormous power. Erik had allowed her more than an enlightening glance at the darkness he possessed. He had deliberately demonstrated his talents. The ability to plan a murder with less drama and remorse than when he'd planned Emily's pretend marriage. The lack of doubt, the lack of guilt. She shivered at the thought. Could it have been only this morning that she had shivered in pleasure at hearing his voice? Christine felt herself getting mad at him. She was angry that he was risking so much so quickly. She was angry that he would risk driving her away. She was hurt that he wanted to.

"Killing your rivals can't always be your first impulse, Erik." The sarcasm dripping from her voice was enough to cover her hurt. He winced at her implied mention of Raoul.

"Is that what you think I'm doing? Eliminating the competition? For what? To be Jamie's only father? To claim the portion of_ love _he granted to Jacob?" His cynical laughter never reached his eyes. She knew her words would enrage him. She had counted on that. Erik's anger was both his strength and his weakness.

"I can assure you that that is the last thing on my mind! Do not try to imagine inexistent motives behind my actions, Christine. They might help to justify my decisions to _your_ mind, but you are deluding yourself." He started pacing the room. "This is what I am good at! _This_ is my talent!" He stole a glance at her through narrowed, blazing eyes. "I analyze possibilities. I foresee things. There is no magic to that! That is what I do! I analyze _facts_! Not feelings that change every second!"

"Feelings _are _facts for the one who has them." He didn't slow his pace. She was certain he did hear her, but he was too much into his own thoughts.

"How could I have missed what was coming? I lost my focus…"

She winced at the guilt lacing his voice. "Erik, you are not a god who foresees things." Her tone now was apologetic. Did he blame what they had together for his loss of focus?

"I should have known. I should have been prepared for him. That's what I do. I protect my people." He kept talking to himself.

He was right. In a strange way, she hadn't been the only one Erik had been protecting back at the Opera House. Nor only Minnette or Meg. Everyone who had worked hard and lived there had been under his protection. Everyone who had dared to defy his personal code of ethics and rules had tasted his wrath and paid the price. When the secret regarding his identity had been revealed, she had tried to think of him as a pathetic man hiding, living alone underground. In a way, in the way _he _had wanted it –and he had allowed it — until he had come to England, he had never been alone. She couldn't even imagine the isolation, the feeling of loneliness, living for months at the Red Door Cottage without anyone to listen to, without anyone to speak to. Only at this moment did Christine realize how important Jamie and Emily had been for him over the years. "Your people?" The words slipped out of her mouth against her will. She raised her eyes to his now still form. He had misunderstood her.

"I know…the people I pay to work for me, but no less, people who live under _my _roof, who tolerate…" His voice broke. He turned his back to her, looking at the darkness outside the window. She walked towards him, but his tense posture made her hesitate to touch him. She tried letting her tone reveal her feelings.

"Please, Erik, don't torment yourself. Only God could have predicted this—"

He swiftly turned, facing her, his eyes burning with fury.

"That is what you think I'm doing? Playing God?" He waved his hand towards the nooses on the bed. "Would a god leave James to go alone to take the cart back to his mother? Wouldn't a god know that that poor excuse of a man, his stepfather, was back to hurt him? No, Christine! I'm not mad! Not that kind of mad, anyway. I don't even think I'm about to serve God's justice." His attempt at a sarcastic smile turned to a frightening expression on his face, contorted with anger. "God! Even a mediocre father would be able to protect his son! I am not pretending to be either a god or a father. I just want to do what life taught me the hard way! And do not delude yourself! This _is _going to make me feel so much better about myself! I will definitely enjoy it!"

Now his smile was genuine. He seemed satisfied regardless of the shock she couldn't hide no matter how hard she tried. Or maybe exactly because of it…

"Would it look better in your eyes if I thought I served as God's avenging _Angel_?"

She shuddered at his mocking tone.

"It would be more accurate to think of me as a gardener, Christine." His velvet voice had the alluring, captivating essence that so easily thrilled her. Christine felt her hair rising, not sure if it was from horror or excitement. She wanted to close her eyes to his arrogant smile, but it seemed as if he had gained control over them, too. She kept looking at him, at his relentless golden stare penetrating her thoughts.

"That would be murder in cold blood," she faintly whispered. Erik lowered his head so that he looked her straight in the eyes.

"Cold blood? How fitting!" He cupped her cheek with his large, cold palm. His sardonic smile made her want to scream with frustration.

"A good gardener has to remove the weeds, Christine. We can't let specimens like Jacob have a chance. Think of me as Mr. Darwin's passionate advocate regarding _natural selection_. Forgive me!" The most chilling sarcasm laced his beautiful voice. "You may not be familiar with the theory. Another 'forbidden' book!" he said, mocking her.

Christine felt her face grow hot at the memory of Burton's _Arabian Nights_ – "_forbidden to the ladies" _– and as the memory of the passionate night they had spent together filled her. She averted her eyes from his amused face, berating herself for her failure to control her expression. She was mad at him for connecting this memory with the idea of Jacob's murder.

"Jacob will die someday. You will surely agree with me that this is inevitable." He leaned against the wall, facing her. His face had a weary expression, as if he were explaining something trivial to an incompetent student for a thousandth time. "The sooner he achieves this one _noble _goal in his life, the fewer people will get hurt. Humanity should thank me for helping him."

II II II

"Is killing so easy for you?" Christine asked, trying hard to sound emotionless and distant. Erik would have been a fool to have been persuaded by her acting. Truly blind not to see how shocked, how appalled she really was. He half smiled at her courageous attempt to change his mind, but answered her with all the brutal honesty he could muster.

"No, not easy. Necessary. I was taught in life – in the worst possible way – that the sooner you deal with a problem like Jacob, the better. Unless you do what you have to do, it haunts you and hunts you back."

"But taking a human life?"

"You call _human _the man who did this to James?"

"You are not God to take lives, Erik! You have to give people a chance!" There was a hint of despair in her voice.

"What do you want me to say, Christine? To persuade you that I am God's hand? Would that make it easier for you?" He almost felt guilty at her pained look. He didn't know of any painless way to do this, but he couldn't afford fooling her this time. No Angels this time. There was so much at stake. "Would that make you _feel _better about it? That it is my rage not letting me see clearly? I won't deceive you. There you are! You wanted to put an end to all secrets. I'm keeping no secrets, Christine. Logic, reason, common sense, all urgently point towards ending this man's life." Erik uttered the words one by one, watching as a tear escaped her violet eyes. She brushed at it furiously, seeming mad at herself. This woman was more stubborn than he had remembered. He was only thankful she didn't use her tears against him. That would have been his undoing. He suddenly felt tired.

"Exactly _because _I am no god, I can't afford to give Jacob a chance! I already told you before… I have very few regrets in my life. One of these is not having killed a man sooner than I finally did."

Her widened eyes brought a smile to his face. Sweet, innocent Christine!

"I was raised in the fear of God. My fear of Him, my fear of the mortal sin of taking another man's life, earned me two more years, two long years of captivity and unimaginable humiliation. However, I ought to consider myself fortunate. Others suffered more." He couldn't look at her face. Not when images like these filled his mind. "He used to spend time with his 'girlfriends' in the barn he kept me in. '_Hush, little girl! Animals won't save you. No one will hear you screaming_.' I did hear them screaming and crying and suffering...he chewed at slices of ginger root all the time. He said it kept him _virile_. He wanted to be potent for his 'girlfriends,' girls no more than seven, eight years old."

He shut his eyes at the memory of the last black-haired girl, who had looked at him intensely, as if demanding his help. She had guided the man near his cage, giving him the time, the opportunity…she had set him free.  
He looked at Christine's shocked eyes. Poor woman! Hadn't she suffered enough? He should probably have spared her the agony. A wicked, self-destructive part of himself wanted to test her limits, to end this charade.

"God means nothing to me! An imaginary hero from a novel is more dear, more close to my heart. You have to see a child's face contorted with pain, the absolute surprise in the eyes when the unthinkable is happening, to realize there is no God. At least not the kind of god Minnette believes in." He shuddered at the memories haunting him. "Beating a child is not the worst thing you can do to him. It's breaking his spirit, dripping fear into his soul that hurts."

He saw her hand reaching towards him, but it trembled and fell at her side. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She seemed to be trying to think of something to say.

"I am a lost cause, Christine. After all, God and I were never on the best of terms." He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose to send the memories away along with the headache. He smiled to himself as a different memory came to mind. His mother's frantic face. "Once, my mother had made me kneel in front of an inhumanly large crucified Jesus she had in her drawing room." The only room of hers he had ever seen. "At least that was how it looked then, large and brooding, as if I had crucified him with my own hands. I spat at the cross and started yelling at her and Him with all the dirty words I knew, which, considering the fact I was very sheltered, were disappointingly few. So, I started yelling other words in the same blasphemous manner; simple, everyday words like 'breasts,' 'tentacles,' 'gruel.' At that moment, they sounded very cruel!" He chuckled.  
"I looked into her eyes, swearing, cursing, daring her to hit me. She never did. I wanted her to hit me only to feel her, the touch of her hand. Was it cold like mine? Was it soft?" He brushed his hand over his face, embarrassed by his weakness. Revealing so much hadn't been his intention.

"Killing Jacob means saving James," he concluded. "Freeing him and his dreadful mother once and for all. When he wakes, he will feel hurt, ashamed of himself that he let this happen to him. I want Jacob dead by that time."

He watched her shudder at his words with a twisted satisfaction. The sooner she realized he had made his decision, the sooner she would stop deceiving herself. Her eyes were begging him. Did she still have hopes of changing his mind? Couldn't she see he had no other choice? Her trembling hand stroked small, comforting circles on his chest. He trapped it under his palm.

"Don't try to control me, Christine. I can hardly control myself."

"What about me, then? What about what we have?" Sadness laced her faint whisper.

A deep growl escaped his throat. He grabbed her by the arms, feeling his face grow hot with anger.

"The whole world does not turn around you, Christine!" Just _his_ world. And she knew that. "Who do you think I am? Your knight in shining armor? No matter what fairy tales consoled you during the years of your loneliness, I am not who you hope I am." And certainly not who she deserved. He knew that. "How could you think I'm able to change what I am? What I have done? What do you expect of me? What do you really know of _me_ except that I want you, that I have _always _wanted you? There is a child fighting for his life in the next room, and instead of doing what I have to do, you want me to think of you?" His voice was harsh. She was looking at him, with her perfect face, her perfect eyes, her perfect lips trembling. With fear? With despair? He couldn't tell. His anger was blinding him. His grip on her arms became tighter.

"And I _am_ thinking of you!" He hated the remorse, the guilt he heard in his voice. "What do you think we have here? What exactly do you think it is that _we have_? Your idyllic dream could only be served by Raoul. What did you expect me to do at a moment like this? _Nothing_? You know these hands have killed people before. More than you can think of, in more ways than you could imagine possible…" Rage filled him. _She_ made him talk to her like this. _She _made him hurt her. But he couldn't stop. A sick part within him guided his words.

"They had people who loved them, too, you know. The people I killed…they had blood running through their veins, too. How do you feel when my hands touch you now, Christine? Does it feel the same as it did last night? Is it remotely the same?" His hands fell from her arms, numb, and he did not dare witness the disgust on her face. She looked at him, her wide violet eyes full of emotion.

"Your eyes don't lie, Christine. Could you stand it if I killed another man?" he asked, more to himself. He knew the answer. "Remember what you told me? It was the blood that drove you away from me. That hasn't changed. I can not change who I am. I have told you that. Even that first night…" He closed his eyes, ashamed of his weakness, of his broken voice.

"Why do I have to choose, Erik? Why do you make me choose again?" Her shaking voice forced him to open his eyes. She was crying. She was trying so hard to hold in the tears. Her violet eyes were red from the effort. He hated himself for doing this to her.

"What are you asking me? To give you my blessing to kill Jacob?"

He shuddered, hearing her desperate question. Those words, uttered by _her _mouth, sounded so absurd to his ears, so utterly sick… was that what he wanted from her? Was that how low he had fallen without even realizing it? Was he willing to take her with him all the way into the absolute deterioration of his soul? He locked his stare on her yellow necklace. It was so hard, so unbearably hard to keep his eyes away from her tormented face.

"People don't do that, Erik." Her hand cupped his cheek. Once more, he marveled at her warmth. The warmth of her touch, the warmth of her voice when she talked to him. "They don't give permission to murder. They don't kill other people…"

"People don't do that…" He repeated her words, lost in his thoughts. "Then who does that? A criminal? A madman? A monster?" His voice trailed off as he felt her hand on his neck. He stiffened at her bold grip, but she didn't seem to notice or care. She stood on her toes and awkwardly crushed her warm lips to his mouth. For a moment, he didn't move, stunned by the surprise, by the desperation of her passion. He growled against her lips and slid one arm around her waist, lifting her, pressing her hard against his body. She wrapped her arms around him, fervently, urgently, with a passion he couldn't believe.

His fingers tangled in her hair, deepening the kiss. It was so easy to lose control with this woman, to be consumed by the feelings, the desires she evoked in him. She felt warm, so divinely right as she leaned against him. It seemed so hard to break the kiss, to put her on the ground. _Like taking a rib from his side_. The metaphor made him chuckle in despair. God was mocking him again. How long before the illusion turned into smoke and dissolved into thin air? He bent his head and rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes.

"You know, there will come a point when you will hate yourself for _what we have. _Hate yourself for letting me touch you. How close are we to that point, Christine?" He hoped sarcasm hid his desperation.

"Let me decide about this, Erik. I won't lie to you. I can't even think you might once again have a man's blood on your hands. No matter what he is. No matter what he's done." She bit her trembling lower lip. "Not now. Not after all we have been through…it will kill me. I will always wonder if I did everything in my power to stop it. If I did anything to provoke it." She put some distance between them. Enough to give him a clear look at her face. "You may not realize it, but you are not the same man as…before." She took a deep breath. "Please, Erik. All we need is…"

He silently dared her to say the word. She smiled at him.

"All we need is time! Let's have Time decide what happens. Give me a chance. Give us a chance. One day at a time…" Her voice faded.

Erik sank onto the edge of the bed. He followed her gaze to what lay on the bed beside him. More than one noose, more than one victim if he went through with it. He tucked his hands between his knees to keep them from trembling. Why did he feel as if time was a luxury he didn't have? Did she know how difficult it had already been for him to give her the time she needed? To not ask her any questions? To not pressure her into answers?

He stood and started pacing again.

"I can't promise you anything, Christine. Have you the faintest idea how difficult all this is for me? And, now, you are asking me to forget all I have learned…" He brushed a hand over his mask, irritated by the feel of it on his skin.

"Don't you see? We are heading towards familiar paths. I _can't _change. I thought I could…I thought I had it under control, but I can't! Whenever I think of _everything we have been through_, everything I have put you through… God help me …I would do it all over again…maybe worse!" Self-disgust filled him. "What do you think I've become here? Tamed? Sated? Everything in me, every gut feeling, every instinct tells me that this man should not live another day." He dared a look at her serene face, his despair rising. Couldn't she hear him? His hand reached out and gripped the window frame, trying to ease some of the tension away.

"I'm not a repentant man you can show the right way to. I am not a mission for you, Christine. I've told you this could not last…I don't want to hurt you. This is a fight we will never win."

"No, you told me it would have thorns."

Erik felt her delicate fingers grasping his hand.

"Trust me, Erik. Just this time…"

He looked at their laced hands. Could she comprehend how unbelievable that image seemed to him? All his certainties had disappeared, and now she asked him to surrender himself to her.

"I can't promise anything," he whispered in a detached tone. At least he still had control over his voice, he thought, mocking himself and his pathetic state.

"How will you face Jamie if you go through with this? How will you protect him and Emily if you are caught?"

He was amazed by her courage. She didn't give in.

"I am not going to get caught," he replied stubbornly. He hadn't answered her first question, and that obviously didn't escape her. He could see it in her defiant stare. Facing James wasn't something he wanted to think of at the moment.

"How can you let your feelings for avenging Jamie blind you? Where is your self-control?" she challenged him.

"I seem to have lost it lately!" he replied with a sarcasm he didn't really feel. All he felt was tired and spent. His rage had left him empty, with no will anymore.

"Mr. Hamilton was right, Christine. Not every man's life has the same value. What we are able to do, what we are able to endure for the people we care about varies depending on how close they are to the heart." He couldn't say the other word that came to his lips.

"Don't you see?" His voice sounded weary even to his own ears. Was he as close to giving up as he felt? "James' mother said he has a habit of bringing home every stray he finds in the streets._ I_ was the stray he found three years ago. _He_ helped me. He picked _me_-" His voice broke. He felt Christine's hands sliding around his waist again, holding him tight, as if she knew the crushing feeling that claimed him. "He was such a fool for doing this…for coming near, for trusting me. He was such a fool…" He buried his face in her hair. This fragile woman offered him his only chance for support, and Erik let himself drift in the amazing feeling for the first time in his life.


	24. The Lion In Love

Greetings to all! I hope for a nice, easy and creative week for everyone!

I'm SO looking forward to reading your thoughts about this chapter!

And if you are among those who read but don't write reviews… no problem. ;-)

[Awful secret revealed: I also used to do this before I started writing. I'm awful, I know... ]

Now that this useless rambling comes to an end, I'll thank Desiree and TOWDNWTBN for their restless efforts (they are saints!), and I'll proceed with the story…

* * *

**Chapter 24 - The Lion In Love**

_"A Lion demanded the daughter of a woodcutter in marriage. The Father, unwilling to grant and yet afraid to refuse his request, hit upon this expedient to rid himself of his importunities. He expressed his willingness to accept the Lion as the suitor of his daughter on one condition: that he should allow him to extract his teeth, and cut off his claws, as his daughter was fearfully afraid of both. The Lion cheerfully assented to the proposal. But when the toothless, clawless Lion returned to repeat his request, the Woodman, no longer afraid, set upon him with his club, and drove him away into the forest"  
Aesop fables -translated by George Fyler Townsend_

"How's Red?"

This was the first full sentence James uttered when he awakened from the state of deep sleep Dr. McKinnan had described. The child's voice was hoarse, nothing but a faint, raspy sound coming deep from his throat. A cough claimed his short-lived whisper, and Christine rushed by his side with a glass of water, looking worriedly at Erik. After a few sips, the boy looked at them questioningly. Christine's face was puzzled, as if worried about James' mental state.

"Red is fine," Erik reassured James. "_Red _is the horse's name," he explained to Christine. "The dog's name is Blue, the horse's Red. If it were for James to name us, I would be Black." Erik threw a glance at his now wrinkled black clothes. "And you would be Violet, or maybe Mauve," he said to Christine, feeling a smile forming on his face for the first time in days.

Christine smiled back at him, and it felt like an insolent sun rising in the middle of that small, gloomy room, regardless of the thick raindrops whipping the window glass.

As always, Time had demonstrated his enormous power by torturing them. The excruciatingly long days had tested Erik's resolve, Emily's patience, Christine's hope. The room was too small to have them all sitting there, waiting for James' awakening, and both Erik and Christine did their best to spare Emily the discomfort of sleeping in an armchair at night, since they couldn't spare her her anguish.

Two days had passed in that state of motionless, frozen waiting, and it felt as if life stood still at the Red Door Cottage. Three agonizingly long nights with Christine half sleeping in the armchair and Erik sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with his knees propped up, elbows resting on them, and his head cradled in his hands, waiting for sound or movement.

Every morning, Erik had contemplated the idea of moving James into his own much larger room, and every time, he had decided against it. That would only mean accepting the situation as permanent, and that was something simply unbearable.  
Every night, he had suggested that Christine sleep in her room for the night, taking some rest, and every time, she had refused with a faint smile on her face. It had been clear. She wasn't only watching James. She was watching him, too.

It had been a strange feeling having her full attention on him, even if it was because she was afraid he would change his mind and make Jacob pay dearly for what he'd done. It was unsettling, but also warm. He felt her eyes which never truly left him when they were in the same room together; he felt her presence near him even when they were apart. Sometimes he wondered if she had tied a thin, invisible thread to him, pulling it, from time to time, to check on his whereabouts. Erik couldn't find any other reason to explain his sudden, urgent impulses to look for her, to tangle his fingers into her now always-loose hair, to taste some of her strength.

He knew she had been right to worry about him. Watching James heal had proven even more difficult than seeing him in his previous state of life-threatening but painless sleep. The changing colors of the bruises, the still swollen injuries, James' features contorted with pain, left a gruesome painting on the child's face that often sent Erik just a step from the edge. His faint moans formed an ugly, heartbreaking cacophony which seeped into the magic aura enveloping the house under Christine's spell.

As a former master of illusions, Erik could appreciate the hard work and effort Christine put into this. During the eight days since James had been brought into the house bloodied and injured, Mrs. Oliveer had visited them four times. Christine spared him from any meeting with James' revolting excuse for a mother. When Dr McKinnan visited, she invented excuses and chores for him so he wouldn't be present during the examination, but only after it. Erik found himself enjoying the company of the talkative malt-whisky expert. The Scottish man loved poetry and his homeland only a notch less than his wife, whom he had followed to England, leaving a promising career at the Glasgow Royal Infirmary. Erik was certain that his service in the famous Dr Lister Hospital was the only reason James had not only avoided any serious infection but also hadn't lost his hand.

Erik hadn't been blinded by Robert Burns' poems and Christine's untiring efforts, and he did not think that everything was fine and normal. He realized Jacob was a problem he would eventually have to deal with, but easing James' distress and experiencing this newfound comfort to his own anguish made him willingly postpone the task, even think of other options. He hadn't known the solace an embrace could offer, a touch on the hand, a warm smile, and tasting them all in generous portions was addicting. However, he never sought them himself, never found the courage to ask for them, never knocked on Christine's door, afraid that his dark mood, his fervent inner arguments, the murderous thoughts still lurking in his mind would be like the poisonous mist Dr. McKinnan had described, the _miasma _that caused disease and death.

It was Christine who looked for him. It was her hand on his shoulder, her hand in his palm that silently guided him every night into her room. He felt so unworthy of the comfort she gave, being still the same inside. His reasoning hadn't changed; he just felt his resolve weakening. His intentions regarding Jacob hadn't changed, but it was as if these intentions were slowly getting numb. As another Robinson Crusoe, Erik felt like a castaway trying to establish some kind of life in this new situation, and the Red Door Cottage seemed a remote island in the middle of the ocean.

II II II

Erik entered the empty kitchen, taking in the disarray reigning there. He couldn't restrain the wicked smile forming on his face. Christine was cooking again. Perhaps "trying to cook" would be a more accurate term. Maybe leaving so early to do his chores at the Twin House had been a wise decision after all. He unconsciously pursed his lips, trying to gather evidence of her new culinary experiment. A pie, of course…

A new smile was evoked by the recollection of the last time she had tried to bake a pie, no more than two days ago. Her eyes had been burning with excitement and anticipation. A few flour strokes on her face were the war paint in her glorious battle with the recipe until the "enemy" won, and the pie burned.

"I'm this close to forbidding you from entering the kitchen!" he had stated. Restraining his chuckle and forcing his voice into a serious tone had been extremely difficult, given the circumstances. Christine had raised her hand, pouting, pointing with her glance at the back of her hand. Tears had welled up in her eyes.

"Again?" Erik had asked knowingly before she had found her way into his arms, burying her face against his chest, her hand still extended in the air.

"Let me see."

She had shaken her head in denial.

"Christine, you have to stop doing that to yourself! You can't keep burning yourself, cutting yourself…it isn't worth it! Let Emily—"

"But I want to help! I want to do this!" She had looked at him stubbornly with her beautiful violet eyes, and he had abruptly forgotten the miserable state the kitchen had been in, or the two hours' cleaning needed before Emily could be induced to cook something edible. He had cleaned up the mess after taking care of her new burn.

Christine's utter clumsiness in the kitchen would have been incredibly funny, especially for a graceful woman such as she, if it hadn't been so dangerous. Even with all precautions taken, she always managed to hurt herself. Erik had become her obedient servant, chopping vegetables, lifting heavy pots or hot pans for her. It seemed as if, during the last week, his only contribution in the house, except for the chopping of wood and spending time with James, had been saving Christine from minor kitchen accidents.

Sometimes he wondered whether that was another way to control him, to keep him by her side. The only thing missing was a bell on him to know where he was any time, any minute. She had already commented on his silent steps.  
The atmosphere was light, but only on the surface. He had seen her worried stares, her deep anxiety, her fear. He had noticed the conversations which stopped every time he entered a room where Christine and Emily talked, the two women looking back at him with worry, as if expecting the worst.

Erik was walking towards the stairs, trying to locate Christine, when he heard muffled voices from the library. She was talking to someone. A man. She sounded highly irritated about something. Worrying that there might be disturbing news regarding James, Erik rushed to the door, but stopped in his tracks when he didn't recognize the doctor's voice in the man's one-word answer. His mind went to Alexander Arnaud. Had he come back to check on _him and his strays_? He had said he would visit before leaving the country, yet Alexander's voice was deeper.

Erik didn't know what kept him from immediately opening the door, which was slightly ajar. After all, his eavesdropping days were over. This was still _his _house! A part of him wanted to wait till the visitor's next full sentence. Another part knew there was something wrong. Erik winced at his cowardly choice to postpone the inevitable. He knew who the man was without hearing him speak again. A man Erik had sworn never to hurt again. A man who, for whatever noble or petty reason, had saved his Christine's life. _His _Christine's life? His stomach knotted up as the realization sank in. Christine's husband was in the library.

II II II

"You swore before God! What happened to 'until death do us part,' Christine?" Raoul asked, anger and desperation lacing his voice.

"Death _did _us part! My son's death! How much more can a marriage endure?"

Erik took a deep breath to calm himself as a muscle began working at the side of his jaw. He wanted to collect himself before letting his presence be known. Hearing the pain in her voice didn't help.

"But we were so happy, at first…we were supposed to grow old together—" Raoul's voice was bitter, his complaint laced with genuine surprise.

"We were supposed to grow up first! We were nothing but foolish children playing at newlyweds. We let others rule our lives as if they were our parents. Philippe wasn't my father, nor my husband!" Christine's tone was harsh, even aggressive. "I realize it took a lot of strength to defy him. Marrying me was brave, Raoul, but _I_wasn't brave enough to live with both of you." Sarcasm dripped from her voice. Erik clenched his fists, recognizing the deeply hurt woman he had met in France just a few months ago.

"I've told you! Philippe is dead! He can no longer interfere in our lives! I am the Comte de Chagny, now!" Raoul uttered his title in pride and frustration. "You are right! We were too young! Come with me, and nothing will be the same as before! Whatever you want, whatever you have dreamt of will be yours. You can even sing again if you want to…or we could go to New York! We could live there…you would be near Meg and Madame Giry, again!" Raoul said, enthusiasm pouring from his voice.

"It's too late, now, Raoul."

A sickening feeling filled Erik as he listened to the sadness in her words.

"What will you do then? Stay here, letting _him _use you again? Look at you, Christine! What has happened to you? Where is your pride? What have you become, now? His cook? That stained apron, the black circles under your eyes…I can hardly recognize you…will you allow yourself to be consumed by that man's darkness?"

"The darkness in_ me _is far more powerful than the light you showed me, Raoul."

Erik froze outside the library. That was how she felt? The brightest days of his life were her darkest ones? And that was the reason she had found solace beside him? That very darkness?

"Is that what you dreamt of? Let me treat you as you deserve to be treated!"

"You should have thought of that earlier, when you really had a chance." Her voice was cruel. "Oh, Raoul…" Now, she sounded remorseful, even guilty.

Only the sound of Raoul's heavy steps broke the silence that followed.

"Do you tremble when he kisses you as you are trembling now for me, Christine?"

A strong wave of nausea gripped Erik's stomach so tightly he had to clutch his mouth. More than Raoul's words, her terrible, unbearable silence caught his breath. He didn't dare to look. He couldn't move a muscle as the sickening feeling claimed him, clutching his insides so tightly…  
What a pathetic man he had become! What a nice sight for the young lovers to see!

"Do you remember what you had told me? He was repulsive! Hideous! He frightened you! He has killed who knows how many people—"

"Erik is not like that any more—"

"Look at you! You are shaking! Why do you do this to yourself? Please come back to me, and I will forget everything! We will forget everything! We have our whole lives …we can be happy, really happy—"

"Stop it, Raoul!"

"Does he kiss you in the dark? Do you see his disgusting face contorted with lust when he beds you? Or do you conveniently _forget _to light the candles?"

"Stop it! I can't listen to you any more! What is it you fail to understand? I am _his_, now! His mistress, his wife, his whore! I am the Phantom's whore! Are you satisfied? How does it feel to know that you were right after all? That everyone has been right?"

Erik felt as if there was not enough air in his lungs. His pulse beat rapidly against his temples, deafening him, protecting him from the venom in her voice. Was that what she thought _they had_?

"You want to humiliate me, then. To disgrace my family's name."

"The whole world is not turning around you, Raoul!"

Her words stung him. Erik tasted their bitter, venomous taste in his mouth. The very words he had told her just a few days ago mocked him. Was she as honest as he had been? Did she lie, too, to hurt her husband?

"Do you want to punish me, then? Haven't you punished me enough, Christine? Only seeing you here, in _his _house… I was driving myself crazy looking for you…"

Erik felt his legs betray him as he listened to the deafening silence that enveloped the library. He didn't dare steal a glance at them, afraid of what he would see. A sudden pressure filled his head in waves following each agonizing heartbeat.

"And now what?" Raoul's husky voice was heard again. "Will you ask for a divorce to marry your lover?"

"Would you give me a divorce, Raoul?"

"No! I will never give you a divorce! Why make _your_ life easier? Why help you, help_ him_, when you don't care about _my _pain?"

"Don't you know it by now? Haven't you guessed?" Her voice had all the pain in the world. Her tone was tired and resigned. Still, even beyond her words, Erik could feel a smile on her face as if he could actually see her. She sounded weary but victorious at the same time. As if she had run a difficult race and found herself reaching the end. When she spoke, all he could hear was relief and satisfaction. "I could never, never ask you for a divorce, Raoul."

II II II

Erik clenched his hands into fists and pressed them hard against his eyes, as if the darkness could stop him from hearing them. It worked. Darkness concealed him; the only audible sound was his heartbeat pounding erratically against his ears. He had seen a human heart. A small, strong muscle no larger than his fist, hard to dissect, insolent under the knife. This muscle now throbbed like crazy, muffling their words, saving him from the torment of listening to their pain, their love, their guilt.  
Was there anyone more pathetic in the world than he was, leaning against the wall for support, fighting for every breath, trying to be silent, to save any crumbs of dignity left? Anyone weaker?

He pushed his fists into his eyes, hoping the pain would shake him out of that ridiculous state. A bright image emerged under his closed eyelids. A vivid sight which knocked him down, bringing him to his knees. He saw them both dead in front of his eyes, their hot blood blending, forming little pools under them.

Raoul's perfect, boy-like face lifeless, the harmony of his features shattered by the gaping slit in his throat. Blood was soaking his silk cravat, sticky blood mussing his blonde hair. Erik let a smile form on his face. The boy's unblemished skin had lost part of its striking shine. That sick, yellowish shade of pale Death didn't suit him. Beside Raoul, almost touching him, Christine lay like a broken doll, her violet eyes open, staring at Erik blankly, a small smile still lingering on her face as if welcoming him. Erik's eyes widened in absolute horror. He smelled the stench of blood. It filled his nostrils. He tasted its metallic taste in his mouth. What had he done? He looked at his palm, covered in fresh, bright red blood as he had seen it a few seconds before. What had he done? He tried to concentrate, to listen to their voices. Were they still talking? He had to see them. He had to see they were alive. Wiping the blood on his shirt, he stepped silently towards the slightly-open door. A sigh of relief escaped his lungs.

Raoul was kneeling in front of her like a knight paying his respects to the lady of his heart. The Prince had finally found Cinderella. His blonde hair shone under the morning light, his sky-blue eyes pleaded with her. Christine had her back turned to Erik, but by the rhythmic movement of her slumped shoulders, it was clear she was crying. They looked like a romantic novel's illustration come to life. Beautiful, young, vibrant!

"Please, Raoul…please go! I don't want Erik to find you here."

"Christine…"

A fresh drop of blood landed on Erik's open palm. His nose was bleeding.  
Christine stroked Raoul's face with her hand. Erik pressed his palm hard against his nose.

"I will never love another man the way I loved you…"

II II II

Erik tried to swallow the bile in his mouth, but his stomach knotted again, and beads of sweat covered his brow. He rushed out of the hall and headed swiftly towards the kitchen's back door just in time. He hung his head over the rain-dampened ground behind the nearest tree and retched violently, his body shaking from the effort to control himself.

He wanted some water to get the disgusting taste out of his mouth, but he couldn't trust himself in the house again. Instead, he ran down the path towards the Twin House as fast as his legs could carry him. His lungs burned, his throat was painfully raw. He stopped for a while, gasping for breath as a tremor passed through him.

Madness! At that moment, he fully understood what madness was and realized he was drowning in it. He heard their voices again and again, drawing blindingly bright images. Her soft, pained voice talking to him…her husband. Trembling with worry. "_I don't want Erik to find you here_." What was she afraid of? That he would find him and kill him? Did she know him so well? He raised his blood-stained hand in front of his eyes, examining it. The raindrops cleaned it, washing away the evidence of his murderous thoughts. If only it were so easy to wash away the thoughts of his mind.

Was he supposed to feel grateful for her giving herself to him? "_I am the Phantom's whore!" _His stomach constricted, he felt nauseous again. A dark red haze threatened to claim him. He fought for some deep breaths, starting to walk under the mild rain. Why was he surprised? Hadn't he suspected it before? Hadn't he even mentioned it to Alexander?

"_I will never love another man the way I loved you." _It was so easy for her to say such words to Raoul, so fitting. She sounded so honest!

"_I could never ask you for a divorce!" _Raoul was braver than he was. His question had made it all clear. If he hadn't been so ridiculously cowardly, he would have asked her the very first day she came to the Red Door Cottage. She didn't want a divorce! Never truly wanted to break the chains binding her to her husband. Once more, Erik found himself chained to her; a slave to her whims, to her desire to feel loved, to her generous nature. He ran his hand over his face, brushing blood, raindrops, and tears away, disgusted with himself.

Every little piece fell into place, even from the first night she had invited him into her room.  
"_No one will find me here unless I want them to_." His steps guided him towards the greenhouse. "_No one has to know." _Her self-imposed disgrace had remained a secret even from Emily. "_Life showed me I can live without love." _She had meant away from Raoul. But Raoul was now here for her.

Then why this charade? Why all this? His eyes rested upon the roses. Their beauty mocked him. His Christines! His fist clenched, crushing a deep red rose. Its almost black petals creased in his grip. He tried to push the image away, but, once more, his memory, his imagination served as his own worst enemy. A low, ominous growl erupted deep from his throat. "_Do you tremble when he kisses you as you are trembling now for me?" _

His hands blindly grabbed whatever he could reach, throwing, breaking, shattering.  
Shards of glass, roses, petals, tools, pieces of wood, all painted a colorful canvas of ruin. Destruction bore such a poor relief, such a petty relief, but he would take any kind of relief now, as he had taken her _merciful gift _over the past week, like the pathetic, miserable man he knew he was.

II II II

Erik found himself standing outside her bedroom. Hope was an addictive poison. He had no pride left to fight his hope. He raised his fist to knock on the door. Wasn't this his right? Wasn't she _his woman, his wife, his whore_? His lips twisted into a bitter, self-mocking sneer. Only last night she had been sleeping in his arms, the sound of her rhythmic breath lulling him into sleep. The midnight moon mocked him with its beauty. Erik rested his forehead against the door. He slowly opened his fist. His cold hand caressed the oak wood, in doubt. He didn't dare to hear the sound of fist against wood. He opened the door silently. Her bed was untouched. Her room was empty.


	25. So Sweet was Never so Fatal

Greetings to all!

I hope you didn't hate me after last week's chapter as I hope you won't hate me after this one…

Thank you ALL for your reviews! And for reading this story!

And above all, I thank Desiree and TOWDNWTBN for their hard work. ;-)

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**Chapter 25 -So Sweet was Never so Fatal ***

"Erik?" Christine's voice greeted him as he entered his bedroom. He had dragged his feet to his room thinking she had left with her husband, only to find her waiting for him there. He didn't need the moonlight to show him she was lying in his bed. She sounded sleepy, as if he had awakened her. She shifted under the heavy covers, yawning.

"Why are you here?" Why had she stayed? He kept his tone neutral. Any tremble in his voice could sound like a sign of tiredness. It wasn't time for hope. Not yet.

"Emily was asleep when I sneaked in. I used my_ silent _steps." She granted him one of her mischievous smiles that made his heart skip a beat. Strange! It still had the same effect. Would she act as if nothing had happened? Would she keep it a secret?

"Is everything well? You sound strange." He let his voice sound casual. He furrowed his brow in distaste. Setting a trap for a loved one felt awkward. It cut both ways. She drew in a deep breath. The faint sound of it reached his ears. Would he have noticed it if he hadn't seen Raoul? What other signs had he missed? How often had he let her deceive him?

"Jamie was restless today. He went for a walk…just around the house!" Another long pause. "He said something about going to the village…" Her voice trailed off.

"That is out of the question!" he exclaimed. "At least until certain _factors _are taken care of." His voice was harsh, his breathing uneven. He pressed his thumb to the bridge of his nose to ease the constant pain away. So Jamie's walk had been the highlight of her day! Perhaps she was sincere. Perhaps Jamie's nervousness was the novelty. Perhaps it hadn't even been the first time Raoul had visited her. This was maddening! Nothing but a sick farce!

If Erik had believed in Fate or Destiny, he would have thought this was just a sick joke, a divine farce so he might appreciate what he had. To take fewer risks. The whole situation had such a surreal quality that part of him wondered whether he was hallucinating, now, seeing her in his room, or perhaps before, when he had seen Raoul. Erik knew better than that. He could distinguish nightmares from reality, he believed in no fate, no destiny, and if God Himself had appeared before him, at that moment, he'd have spit on His face, again, for the inadequate job He was doing. Erik couldn't restrain his chuckle at the thought. Christine watched him laugh after his previous outburst as if he were going mad, fully awake now. She was a perceptive girl! Not a girl, he had to remind himself. Not even an ordinary woman. The Phantom's whore! What a title she had gained for herself! A man should always be proud of granting his woman such an honor.

"Erik, come to bed." She looked so soft, as sweet as she had always looked. Not only was she deceiving him, but his own eyes, _his_ senses were deceiving him, now. Her voice was soft and sweet, too. Almost as sweet as if she had said, "_I will never love another man as I love you_." A new rush of blood hit his temples, building up the pain.

"In a while," he whispered.

Erik walked to the window at the wall farthest from the bed. He leaned against it, looking at her intensely, examining her. Didn't she see that he knew? Why didn't he ask her himself? Was he such a coward? Did he want to avoid the pain, or was it his twisted sense of hope that silenced him? The idiotic part of him that knew that any time with Christine conceded him was a privilege. A gift? He closed his eyes. What could she possibly say that would make_ her _words sound better, take on another sense? He had thought of all possible explanations. None of them was flattering. What could she possibly say that would be remotely believable?

He wished he could believe her lies one more time. He wished he could fool himself once more. Most of all, he wished he didn't know. But he knew Raoul had been that very morning in his house. He knew Raoul had kissed _his_woman, who had failed to show any sign of protest other than a trembling from desire; Raoul, who was now the Comte de Chagny, as if that made him king of the world. A low growl escaped his lips. At that moment, all vows not to spill his blood were off. His weaker self had been left back at the Twin House along with everything else that might be able to fool him again. If he had killed the bastard when he had had the chance, none of this would have happened. Christine would never have forgiven him; he would have had no idea of her sweet taste, but solitary grief, and Raoul under the ground seemed so much more comforting than this joined misery.

"I wanted to come to the Twin House, but Jamie told me you don't appreciate being disturbed…" He smiled upon hearing her excuses. As if that were the reason! "Do you want me to light the lamp?" she asked, unaware of his sarcastic smile. The darkness in the room served him just right.

"No! Not tonight—"  
He undressed in the dark, folding his jacket with extra care, placing it on the armchair, taking all the time in the world as if his life depended on it. His sanity depended on it.

"Will you be going to the village tomorrow?" Had she arranged something? Would_ he _wait for her?

"No. Do you want me to go? I know Emily will go to church…"

Was she mocking him? If she were going to leave him, would she tell him? Why? To explain? To make him understand? To be sure he wouldn't hurt her husband? Last time, a kiss on the forehead had been her farewell. Now what? Perhaps something more intimate?

He took some deep breaths to compose himself. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes again. Why was he so weak? Was he so desperate that he had no pride, no dignity?  
He heard her steps, muffled by the thick carpet. He opened his eyes. Her face was so close to him. His cold palm cupped her cheek, his fingers tangled into her hair. He felt daring. How far would she allow him to go this night? A stroke of the hair, a bold caress, a light kiss? He tested all of these. She didn't protest, didn't stop him. Her violet eyes looked black in the wan light. He kissed her angrily, his lips crushing hers with a desperation he felt filling him in waves. He pulled her bottom lip against his teeth, taking in her sweet taste. The taste of betrayal.

His hands were rough against her thin chemise. Her hands found his skin under his shirt. Her faint moans brought him back to reality. He pinned her wrists, above her head, to the wall. He looked at her, glorious in her desire, her breathing uneven, her chemise damp over her skin, betraying the places his lips had been. What was this? This couldn't be their last night together…his mind refused to comprehend this as an act of mercy. Still, the desperation in her passion matched his as if indeed this were their last night….

His other hand wandered over her surrendered body, unbuttoning tiny buttons, revealing his once promised land, the delicate line of her collarbone, her smooth, pale skin under the moonlight, the full, feminine curves. She was ready for him. If it had been any other night, he would have thought her eyes were begging him. He couldn't trust his eyes anymore.

_"Do you tremble when he kisses you as you are trembling for me now?"_ Raoul's voice sounded loud and clear in his head, as if he were in the room with them, beside them, touching her. Her silence, then, was the only truth coming from her lips. Simple truths he used to take for granted had been mocking him, deceiving him all along, driving him insane. Yes, she trembled for him, too. What did it mean? He knew she would find pleasure in his arms. She knew it, too. That wasn't the same, it wasn't remotely the same as loving _him_, accepting him, being _in _love with him. He smiled to himself in contempt. For a man who claimed to scorn love, his hunger for it was ridiculous.

He let her hands fall by her sides, burying his face in her hair. He growled in despair. How could he find comfort in the person inflicting him with such pain? He needed her more than ever, but he could find not even a crumb of love in his heart for her at the moment. Could she feel the change? Did she feel like this, too? Shouldn't he be disgusted at kissing the lips that had willingly kissed another man mere hours ago? He was disgusted with himself and his need. He wanted her more hopelessly than at any other time, and part of him wanted to bury himself inside her as she was standing there against the wall, dizzy with desire. Isn't that what whores were doing in darkened alleys with their clients all the time? What a miserable client he was! Falling in love with his whore…

"Erik?" The sound of his name sent a shiver down his spine. He felt broken. He didn't have any anger left to guide him out of this. No light to show him the way. He could never find himself again.

"Erik…" Her hand on his chest, her warm touch he used to crave, now burned his skin. She took his hand in hers, guiding him to the bed. He followed her, gazing at the interlaced fingers. Cold and warm. Hope and pain.

What was the new bargain forming now? Would she punish herself and her husband?  
_Her chemise slid to the floor._ She did not want a divorce. _Did she know how beautiful she was?_ Probably wanted to humiliate the boy, to cause him the most agonizing pain, but also didn't want to be free from him. _Her skin blushing under his touch_. What would she do? _Her hair spread over the pillow, over his pillow._ Would she stay with him, drawn by whatever hold his darkness had on her? Till when? Until she no longer recognized herself? Until she no longer felt the pain? _His lips, his teeth nipped her skin, the delicate, secret areas he had foolishly claimed as his own._ And if it was not pain, what other feeling was left for them? _Her eyelids heavy with desire…_  
Erik knew what forced him to use lies and deception in_ his_ life. What inner need formed _her_ ability to lie on that level? _Her moans filled his senses._ Had he corrupted her mind so badly, or was it a talent of her own? _Her leg wrapped around his waist._  
What was a lie other than a makeshift reality? Could he live forever in a world existing only in his mind? It wasn't so unfamiliar to him. _The key hanging from his neck mocked him, drawing its own light course on her neck as his lips moved lower._

It was true. He could lose himself in that woman, dive into oblivion. No remorse, no thought, no doubt would blind him again. _He wasn't gentle- he couldn't have been even if he had tried. Yet his need met her passion._ Was he his own worst enemy? _Her gasps, her ragged breathing as she found pleasure, the absolute loss of control as she trembled in his arms, the short but complete surrender, the faint smile on her face as if surprised she was there once more... _  
Wasn't that worth all the pain in the world? _A violent tremor passed through him. He shuddered, releasing all the energy building up inside._  
Finding pleasure didn't feel the same anymore. Was there any more breathtaking experience than willingly losing control in the arms of the person you loved? Whom you trusted? That wasn't there anymore. It had been stolen. Worse! It had never been there. It only had been in his mind. Once more, he had let his hope fool him again.

Why was pain always more attractive than any other feeling? Was there a part of him so disgusted by him that it found pleasure only by causing pain to its owner? What was this for her? An act of mercy? Was that the reason behind the surprise on her face every time she had found pleasure in his arms? No! It wasn't just that.

_"I want to feel loved, if only for one night."_ A tortured soul. He had heard the words coming from that very mouth he now caressed with his fingers. He lowered his face but couldn't find the strength to kiss those lips. He felt his cold fingers caressing her neck against his will. There was no will in his body, no strength, no power to withdraw himself from her, to claim back his dignity, his self-respect. This fragile neck ruled him. This fragile woman ruled him, and he would always obey her commands. No matter what.

No way for him to escape as long as this heart kept beating against her ribs, dictating his very existence. He felt its rapid rhythm under his palm. Mocking him, laughing at him, at his weakness. Only in silence would he find peace. Her still uneven breathing, which had been like music to his ears, now caused him pain, disgust at his lost self-control. He could feel himself wanting her again, shocked by the way his body so insolently defied his mind. He was torn in two.

There was only one way to be free, to set her free, too. Was that what she wanted in seeking _him_? She knew who he was. A madman, a murderer. Was that what she _needed _from him? The reason she stayed? The absolute release only death could offer? His hand caressed her delicate neck again. It wouldn't take much effort. Maybe even one hand was enough. He had killed his master before. She was his absolute master, now. If he wanted to be true to himself, he should end this once and for all.

Dawn would find none of them breathing. What a peaceful image that was! He might even be happy before the end. He might even regain some of his dignity. He felt so tired. Was there any other way to find some peace? To stop the questions in his mind? So many questions! Would he be strong enough to do it? Strong enough to squeeze the life out of the only person who made him feel alive and human? Her stare on him was intense, as if she knew what he was thinking. She smiled at him. He saw her as he had seen her in his mind, lying lifeless like a broken doll; her eyes open, smiling at him.  
Absolute horror! The utter blasphemy! The breath caught in his throat. He gasped for air, but his lungs were shut. Was he so mad? His madness was palpable now. It had a face, a smell, a name. Christine with no breath in her body. Death. The absolute justice, the absolute peace!

He pulled away from her, leaving her lying in the bed, her eyes burning him. He stood as far away from her as possible. His mask was burning him, as if melting on his face. His eyes caught his reflection in the window. His naked body was outlined, only his mask glinting under the moonlight.

He was a ghost! For the first time in his life, he truly felt like a ghost. Against his better judgment, he had followed her wishes, he had believed what she had said, he had hoped again, he had succumbed to that woman. He couldn't see himself anymore. What was a man without will, decisiveness, without strength? He was lost. All he ever was, all he ever had wanted, all he had ever dreamed of was no more.

II II II

_"It is the Devil who holds the reins which urge us on!"_

Erik crumpled the paper in his fist before putting it into his pocket. Jane and Gillian had been in a poetic mood lately. He preferred the "get off of my land" type of notes, but even they had always had a dramatic undertone. Curses, threats of eternal burning in Hell, warnings. In those days, the ghosts had been fun. Now they were more educated, but the originality was lost. He wondered who would walk all the way from the village to leave that silly note in the small wooden box just inside the gates. Probably someone on his way to Swindon. He tried to recall what the line reminded him of, but couldn't concentrate on the task… he sighed, frustrated and bored. Too many ghosts for his taste! The alarm bell hadn't rung since the latest storm. He would fix that, too – in time. Would the house start falling apart as he had?

He could watch the mailbox at nights; see who played the "ghost" these days. That wasn't a bad idea. Anything that might be useful to distract his attention was welcome. To keep the thoughts out of his mind, keep Christine away from his sight. He felt the obsession building again. The strong drive that governed his mind when control was lost. He could be doing a number of things – playing music, walking in the forest with James as he had just after dawn this morning. He could function as he always did, but it was there. It was always there. Like a mental note once made and now fighting to emerge through the clouded mind. Obsession felt like a second skin burning him. As though his mind were divided in two. He hadn't completely lost his wits yet. He had lost his concentration. Questions, fears, doubts, speculations materialized, suffocating his reason. He couldn't trust his judgment anymore.

Fresh air did nothing to soothe him. James' silent company was equally ineffective. The child wasn't in a good mood himself. Not even his starting construction on the tree house helped. Keeping James indoors was like trying to harness a cloud. He wanted to go to the village. Erik knew James' instincts were right. To keep postponing it would only make it worse for him. More difficult. He was to blame for the boy's discomfort. Him, and his weakness.

"I did try to fight him, you know…" James' voice had trailed off. He had sounded apologetic, as if trying to explain his failure. Erik gritted his teeth. He knew this train of thought very well. The boy would wonder whether he had done everything in his power to avoid the beating. As if it had been James' mistake. "Not beat him…but make him hit the wall, instead, a couple of times." A wicked smile had lingered on his freckled face. The illustrated memory had seemed to amuse him. Erik didn't find it amusing at all.

"Why didn't you run?"

James had shrugged his shoulders.

"It didn't help before. Maybe I will next time." He had smiled again, deep in thought.

Erik had left the boy at the treehouse. He had walked a lot. In anger, in fury. He had tried to collect his thoughts, but they remained scattered, torn. The same phrases, the same images, on and on. Whipping his mind. Clouding his sight. He didn't care. He would work with what he had. He knew he could not postpone the confrontation with Jacob for another day. A few hours, maybe. Until the sun set. A little earlier, if the purple rainclouds kept gathering so fast. Darkness would be his ally. He could count on darkness. Maybe he could count on his reflexes, too.

He raised his eyes to the sun. Bright, unbothered by the clouds reaching him. Divine in his power. Attacks like this meant nothing to him. It wasn't noon yet. A look at his watch made him growl in anticipation. Two hours to noon, then at least three till he could leave. Five hours in this restless haze. He walked towards the house. Maybe some music could allow his mind to focus on something. Nonsense!

The library door was slightly open again. Christine's way of keeping an eye on him? It might have been offensive if it hadn't been so futile! Her voice was strained, almost frightened. His steps faltered. He approached the door, taking a quick look inside the room. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath. Only Christine and Emily were there. The blonde woman was removing the hair combs from her hair. Erik recognized her "church" dress.

"You shouldn't go to the village!" Christine's voice was still tense. She ran her hand through her loose hair in frustration. Erik felt the same strong pull towards her. He had to restrain himself from going inside, asking what was wrong, trying to console her. That privilege had been lost the moment he saw her dead by his own hand.

"I don't know how much longer I will be able to go to church." Emily's hand rested on her belly, concern laced her voice. It was already obvious she was expecting, but no one knew of the loose corset she wore when she went to the village. Erik wondered whether church and Father John's sermons were worth the trouble or if it was her own persistence at keeping the story credible and his reputation intact. A sad, sardonic smile formed on his face. At least Mrs. Oliveer had kept her silence.

"Jacob is dangerous! He could have hurt you—"

Erik's fists clenched.

"I was in Mr. Hamilton's store. How was I supposed to know—? He was very serious, though. Thank God, not drunk yet."

"What does he look like?" Christine's trembling voice made Erik's face grow hot with fury. She was frightened of this man.

"Repulsive! Huge!" Emily's voice sounded equally anxious. "I can't imagine how that woman thought it wise to have this man as Jamie's stepfather." Disgust dripped from every word about James' mother.

"We shouldn't say anything to Erik…" His breath caught, hearing Christine's suggestion. More lies?

"He meant it, Christine! What if he comes here?"

Christine was silent for a while.

"Give me three, four days…" What would happen in three, four days? Would her husband come back for her?

"How is he today? He seems always on edge lately." Emily sounded worried again.

"He is with Jamie at the treehouse. Jamie is so stubborn about going to the village…maybe you should talk to him…"

Had Emily been talking about _him _earlier?

"I still believe we should tell Erik." Innocent, honest Emily. She didn't know what he was capable of. "Even if Jacob doesn't really want to send Jamie to work in a factory as he has threatened – I doubt the money would be more than what he gets from Erik — what would stop him from coming here, demanding to take the boy? Can you imagine that?"

Erik felt his blood boil at the thought. If Jacob would only dare set a foot in the Red Door Cottage, Blue would have a generous share of bones for months.

"He is just testing us! Testing Erik! He wants to blackmail him. See what Jamie is worth to him…" Christine's voice trailed off as if in deep thought.

"It's obvious he's trying to see if he can get more money…I wouldn't mind seeing him bleed, though. A good punch to his flat nose…" Emily's voice was harsh.

Christine was silent. Erik felt his lips twist up into an arrogant smile. A punch wasn't enough. It wasn't remotely enough for a man like Jacob. Rage filled his mind and cleared his thoughts. Rage was a familiar feeling.

"If I had some more days…to prepare Erik for that…" Christine sounded as if she was pacing the room. Prepare him? For what? For Jacob? Manipulate him again?  
"Did you send my letter?"

"Yes, thank goodness I did that before running across Jacob. You may have the days you need. After all, I told him that, with his bad hand, no factory would give Jamie a penny!"

"I wish you wouldn't challenge the man…" Christine's words faded as Erik walked out of the hall. He didn't know who made him angrier. Jacob or Christine?

He grabbed some things from his room, trying to avert his eyes from the bed. All her lies, all her deceptions assaulted him with double force. He welcomed the madness that now ruled his senses. What did he hope for? That by feeling numb, he'd escape the pain? When had that happened before?

He took a deep breath only when he had left the Red Door Cottage far behind him. His steps were guiding him to the right place. He let the madness guide him. It was a good choice. After all, it was the most trustworthy asset in his life now.

She wanted to manipulate him again! To control him! What would happen in three days? Did she think that was the time needed to have him under her spell again, or her good husband would come back for her, and she would have to deal with him no longer? Didn't she know that only one word from her would be enough? That was all! One word, and he would be her slave again.

Where did "_A__ll I ask of you is honesty"_ go?  
Was there any other way to fight the desire, the jealousy? He could risk it no more! Not for another hour! Not if he wanted to be free.

He had watched her leave him at the Opera House; he had watched her marrying another man; he had seen this man in his house; he had heard him kissing her…  
Raoul's words haunted him again, James' words, her words. Like a twisted song, a sick tune playing again and again, deafening him. Was there any other way to escape that?  
His ragged breathing slowed him down as the image of her lifeless, smiling face emerged along with that sick yearning for peace.

"Please, don't let me kill her," he murmured to himself. "Better Jacob than her. Better me hanged than her—" His breathing became easier as he kept repeating the words. The song in his head stopped. His pace followed the rhythm of his muttering. "Better Jacob than her. Better me than her."

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*"One more, one more.  
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee  
And love thee after. One more, and that's the last.  
So sweet was never so fatal. I must weep,  
But they are cruel tears. This sorrow's heavenly,  
It strikes where it doth love."  
Othello, Act 5, scene 2 *****


	26. Owned

Greetings to all!

Thank you for your reviews and support reading this story. It means more than words are able to express.

Oops, that says something about my writing skills. Hmm…

Desiree and TOWDNWTBN (The-One-Who-Does-Not-Wish-To Be-Named) do an amazing job, so I'll never be able to thank them enough.

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**Chapter 26 - Owned**

The small brass bell attached to the door signaled his entry into Mrs. Oliveer's grocery store, producing a musical sound that lingered in the air long after the door had closed behind him. The store was exactly as he remembered it. Dust motes danced around Mrs. Oliveer as she moved towards him.

"Can I help you, M. Rochelle?" Her timid tone brought a smile to his face. Who inspired the most fear? He himself, or the man sitting behind the counter where she used to sit and order James around? The reversed balance of forces was obvious.

"I would like a word with your husband," Erik explained calmly, and watched her lean against the furthest wall, as if trying to be absorbed by the cracking coloring. Her presence would be a complication. The noon-bright light, too. Even though the dirty windows worked in his favor, everyone walking outside could easily see inside the store. His lips twisted up into a wicked smile. Nothing better than improvisation!

He took a good look at the man, approaching him slowly. He was around fifty with thin hair and broad shoulders. His alcohol-soaked breath reached him despite the distance that separated them. So much for not being drunk! All the way to the village, Erik's mind had been filled with images of this man. Jacob clutching at his throat, his fingers working desperately to loosen the tightening noose as it slowly cut the air from his lungs. The first surprise, the pointless struggle until his face began to turn blue, perhaps purple in his case, and his eyes started to bulge. He hadn't seen Jacob before. It was nice to put a face to that image.

He felt the weight of the rope in his hand tucked carefully under his sleeve. Light as a feather. Something so light, so easily capable of inflicting death. He bet Jacob couldn't appreciate the irony. Mrs. Oliveer was right. Jacob was strong as an ox. Looked like it, too. His head looked as if it were glued to his shoulders, a little lower than it should have been. It didn't matter. Even oxen had necks.

Jacob reminded him of another man. It had been years since the last time he had thought about him. He had been even larger and taller than Jacob— taller than Erik— with hair and fat which struggled to find a way to escape his tight clothes. His body, wet from perspiration, had exuded waves of a deep, revolting odor that had assaulted Erik's nose every time the humongous man moved. A secret weapon, no doubt! Killing the man had posed no problem. Killing him while allowing him to make the least possible movement had been the challenge. Erik had killed him immediately, no toying with him as usual. In two moves.

The man had hardly even felt the rope around his neck. He had probably thought it was a fly biting him. Erik couldn't find another way to explain the light waving gesture his enormous hand had made over his neck. One move. The man hadn't tried to take hold of the noose. Erik hadn't given him the chance. Holding his breath, he had pulled the rope with all his might, slamming the surprised giant to the ground. Two moves. He hadn't used the stick that time. Using his foot as leverage on the man's shoulder, he had tightened the rope until the man was lying there, an empty carcass under the hot sun. Erik knew he had spoiled the fun of the kill. Many present had voiced their frustration then. None of them had had to smell the man, though. Repulsive!

Jacob wasn't as strong as that other man, but his weight was only musculature, not fat.  
Erik shuddered, thinking what Jacob's fist could do to James if the man really wanted. He had had control over his strength. He had known perfectly well what he had been doing to the boy. Otherwise, he could have crushed James' skull in a single blow. He quickly shoved both the thought and the rising anger aside. There was no point in this, now. Not allowing emotions to interfere was part of the game. Any other option was a suicide wish. Erik didn't intend for Jacob's crooked teeth and closely-set eyes to be the last image of this world before he met his death. No, that wasn't an option.

He was almost amazed at himself. His boiling rage as he had walked towards the village had transformed into perfect calm by the time he entered the store. All his instincts, all his reflexes were ready and focused. He should probably have expected this, but all the years of unused skills had caused him to doubt himself. Maybe this was some sort of second nature.

Jacob was watching him, measuring him in his mind. He wondered how a mind like Jacob's worked, but he sent that thought away, too, uninterested. The man's stare was locked on his mask, his brow furrowed over his small eyes. Erik waited until the inspection was over and Jacob's face relaxed again. When he spoke, his tone was polite, as if he were addressing Father John.

"May I have a word with you in private, Mr. Oliveer?"

"We can go to the basement…" Jacob suggested with a beaming smile. Erik felt the familiar throbbing in his temples. His face turned hard. There was no way he could control his temper in the room where James had been left hurt and broken. "I hope you don't want any money for the lessons to the kid." Jacob laughed at his own joke, allowing another glimpse of his crooked teeth.

"Is that the only option?" Erik was greatly disappointed by the rage he heard dripping from his voice. He pressed his lips into a firm line, trying to restrain any other word from escaping his mouth.

Jacob stood and opened a small door behind him which Erik had never noticed before. The room was on the same floor. Erik sighed, relieved.

"Don't pick a fight with me, boy," Jacob muttered under his breath, walking inside the large, dimly illuminated room with the arrogance of a man who knew he was stronger than his opponent. "You'll regret it!" he sneered, taking a sip of his beer. He even seemed bored.

It was Erik's turn to beam. This was going to be fun.

II II II

Erik didn't know how long he had walked among the tall trees. He had followed a stream flowing in the forest at the borders of the village, avoiding the green patchwork formed by fields. The lane dividing the patchwork like tight stitchery showed the way home, but Erik wasn't ready to go back home.

It was dusk when his steps guided him towards the waters of the lake. _His_ lake. How strange it felt to own a lake, a house – two houses! He could comprehend owning the houses – after all, he had built one of them almost from scratch – but a lake, a forest? Wasn't the thought ridiculous in its futility? They would be there long after he was dead. Long after all memory of him was gone. Yet he claimed _he _owned them; strong, ageless trees, dark waters fed by the rain that now soaked him to the bone. If owning a solid part of nature was comprehensible, why did owning a human being feel so wrong? Was it because of how vulnerable people were? With limited lives and a weird, elusive sense of freedom? He had told Christine he understood the need to possess the person who was his own absolute master. He still did. It was only a means of defense. When you surrender yourself in love, you want some insurance. That wasn't the case here.

He took off his mask, letting the thick raindrops soothe his flushed skin; cleanse him. How much more repulsive would he be without it? A lot! He smiled at the instant, spontaneous answer, looking at the white piece of leather in his hands. It was like looking at a body part. He couldn't imagine himself without it. Even as a child, he had had great difficulty combining the unmasked reflection in the mirror with himself. Only with the mask did he recognize his face, feel whole.

He secured it in place once more and jumped over the tall fence that separated the Red Door Cottage estate from the rest of the world. Christine wouldn't be happy with him. He was not even happy with himself. Half measures had a tendency to feel that way.

He entered through the front door and immediately heard Mrs. Oliveer's annoying voice from inside the library. Wasn't one dose of that miserable creature enough for one day? Christine was with her. How many times had he eavesdropped on her conversations lately? His old habits were back with full force.

"I don't know what happened! I wasn't in the room!" Mrs. Oliveer was whimpering in an irritating manner. "I heard some glass breaking and the usual noise from Jacob, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't hear M. Rochelle's voice."

Erik smiled at the memory of Jacob's futile attempt to use the broken glass against him.

"The usual noise…?" Christine's apprehensive voice made him wince.

"You know…curses, threats…about his pals and what they could do…things like that. He hadn't been traveling, as I'd been saying to people, you know. He'd been in jail…"

_What a surprise! For an unjust cause, no doubt! _

"Ahh…!" Christine's barely audible exclamation knotted up Erik's stomach. Why was this woman's distress so painful to him?

"Only when I heard some strange noises did I dare to open the door."

"And?" Christine urged her to speak.

"I swear to God! That man is a magician! True evil!"

"What did you see?" She sounded impatient now. Poor Christine!

"Jacob was dancing! He was flying through the air, dancing! He seemed to be trying to grasp something at his throat, but I didn't see anything there—"

"He was hanged?" The horror in Christine's voice was more than he could take. Erik took a step, intent on leaving, when he heard Mrs. Oliveer's voice again.

"No! I'm telling you he was flying! Up and down, as if floating in the air. His hands – one on his neck, the other moving as if trying to swim. His leg, too. It moved up and down in rhythm with his body."

Erik felt an involuntary smile on his face. That was how having a man hanged by two Punjab lassos, one around his neck, the other around his leg, looked! Interesting! He had to thank the exposed wooden beams for making it possible. When he had had the noose around the man's fat neck, it had felt so easy, so tempting, to turn the stick, tightening it notch by notch. He didn't know what stopped him. Maybe he had known there was no way back after that. He could never have returned to Red Door Cottage.

But that man's words had made his blood boil in rage. He had thrown the ropes over the beam, and the "flying" part had begun. His mad fury alone had been the cause of his ability to maneuver Jacob's weight in the air.

"Like a puppet…" Christine's voice trailed off in understanding.

"M. Rochelle had his back turned to me, but he was just looking at Jacob. He didn't even touch him! He moved his hands like a magician, or like the man who stands in front of an orchestra…I once saw one in Swindon."

"A maestro." Erik shuddered at Christine's faint voice laced with horror. Her desperate tone when she spoke again shook him to the core.

"Please, Mrs. Oliveer, you have to keep this to yourself. Tell no one about this! It's very important!" She was almost begging. For him?

"I've already told Mrs. Conrad. Her husband and Mr. Hamilton helped me move Jacob to his bed. I didn't know it was a secret!" she exclaimed defensively. "But she didn't believe me. She thought I had been drinking, but I swear to you, Madame Giry, I haven't even had a sip today! You've got to believe me!"

"I believe you, Mrs. Oliveer. Did they see Erik?"

"M. Rochelle was gone before anyone came. He should have been here hours ago. I came because I knew Dr. McKinnan would change James's bandages today, and I want to take him to see Jacob."

"Is your husband hurt? Is he going to—?" Christine's voice broke.

"I don't know! When he stopped…flying, he looked fine. He was shaken and his hand never left his neck. M. Rochelle seemed to help him with something, and turned to leave. When he had almost left the room, Jacob tried to shout at him, but his voice was hoarse, more like a croak. 'If I see the bastard here again, the deal's off. I'll break his neck. Just like his stupid bird.' That's what he said."

Erik gritted his teeth at the memory.

"M. Rochelle turned back, bent over Jacob sitting on the floor, and whispered something in his ear I couldn't hear. Jacob's body started shaking like those men in church who're possessed by Satan – his eyes turned back into his head, and foam covered his mouth. It was frightening! M. Rochelle was gone, but I couldn't move Jacob alone. I asked for help…I left him half sleeping, half awake, but he doesn't remember anything of this last part. And I didn't tell him much because if he hears so many people saw him like this, with the foam and all…he had pissed himself…" Mrs. Oliveer was crying, and Erik could imagine her dirty, disgusting tears flowing.  
"But I want Jamie to come back!" she said between her sobs "I want him with me—"

"That will be very dangerous for a while, Mrs. Oliveer. You have to tell Jamie you don't need him, to stay here—"

"But I do need him! He is my child! He loves me, and he has sworn to protect me, to keep us both safe…what will happen to me now?" That was more than Erik could bear. He walked to his room, leaving a trail behind, his wet clothes dripping on the floor.

II II II

Erik had just changed into fresh clothes when Christine entered his room after a short, harsh knock on the door.  
He was applying some ointment on the deep cuts the rope had left on his palms. Lifting a heavy man into the air had its disadvantages. At the time, he had felt no pain at all.

"Do you want me to call Dr. McKinnan?" She raised her brow, looking at his hands.

"There is no need. I can handle this. I guess he has more _serious _patients to attend to," he replied with scorn.

"Is Jacob's condition serious?" Erik smiled at the disgust lacing her voice as she said Jacob's name.

"He will live, if that is what you are worrying about. He just needs a good night's sleep, and then he will go back to his _normal _self we all so admire and adore!"

"Is that what you think? That I'm worrying about _him_?" She sounded angry. "Do you know how worried I was when Jamie came back alone? I'd been afraid you would go there…I was thinking of you with that brute…"

"I think I had made it clear there was nothing to worry about.  
Anyway, I truly apologize. I didn't want to cause you such distress! _Worrying about me_!"

"Are you mocking me?"

"I wouldn't dream of such vulgarity!" he continued in the same sarcastic tone. "You had nothing to be anxious about. We did come to an agreement."

"Was that agreement settled before or after he started _flying_?"

"Before, of course! _Flying _was just part of an argument. I had to persuade him I could keep my end of the bargain. In such cases, words fail to describe correctly—"

"His life was part of that bargain?"

"A worthless part for both of us as it seems. I had to offer money, too."

"What was the point in taking such a risk?"

"You can't blame a man for having some fun, Christine!"

Her face was flushed with fury. His light tone didn't seem to satisfy her. Erik couldn't care less. He looked at her standing in his room as if she belonged there. Jacob was a parasite, a leech, but wasn't she more dangerous? He had chosen that very room for himself so as not to torture himself with figments of his wild, wishful imagination, yet he had allowed her into his life, into his bed.  
He watched tears of frustration and anger welling up in her eyes.

"I can't believe you are doing this! Risking so much! In front of Mrs. Oliveer!"

"Would it serve you better if it were in the middle of the night?"

"Stop it! Stop talking like this! Stop using that tone, or we will both say things we'll regret later!" Was she threatening him?

"Perhaps you would like to enlighten me, Christine! Don't leave me in the dark!" His sarcastic voice made her wince.  
"Now is as good a time as ever! Talk to me, Christine! Let's not keep secrets between us. Remember?"

"How can I even _talk_ to you when you are like this? This Jacob…I wish…I wish he were dead!" she moaned in despair, allowing the tears to flow. "I just don't want _you _to be the one who kills him!"

All the anger left him as he heard her words. For Christine to say – to even think such words was heartbreaking. He had done this to her. He had darkened her soul. If he truly loved her, he should be the one sending her to her husband.

"You know there is no point trying." He was talking more to himself. "I will never change."

"But I know your soul!" She stood before him, lightly stroking the back of his hand.  
"I know you love Jamie! I know you would never do anything to hurt me—"

The blood drained from his face. The haunting image of her emerged in front of his eyes.

"You are so wrong, Christine! You can't imagine how wrong you are!" he whispered, that image still in his mind.

Her violet eyes locked on his, hard, unyielding. A tremor passed through her. Did she guess how wicked, how truly rotten he was?

"It makes no difference. I don't care," she said in an unreadable voice. Fear, determination, resignation glinted on her face? He couldn't tell. He just stood there, looking at her, stunned.

"What was the agreement? Will he leave Jamie alone?" she asked after a long silence.

"It is worse than that—" He heard the guilt, the shame saturating his voice, but he couldn't help it. "I bought James."

Christine's eyes widened in horror. She opened her mouth to ask something, but no sound came from her lips as understanding sank in.

"It's not that James is going to find out any of this! This is all in Jacob's head anyway! It is not some kind of slavery! He has just asked for an amount of money to leave the child alone. After that, he said he didn't care what I do with him as long as he never sees him again." He knew he was rambling. The shame of this "deal" wasn't easy to swallow.

"Is he going to keep his word after—?"

"Money is so tempting. He would never think otherwise."

In Jacob's mind, Erik owned James now, as he owned the lake, the forest. As he had been owned by his master so many years ago. James' value was less than the Spanish chess set's. If a child and a piano had the same value, which was more precious? Would it depend on whether the one who chose was a music lover? If the choice was between a man and a unique work of art? If that work of art was a Velázquez and the man Jacob? What sick train of thought was that? And he had agreed to this. Wasn't killing Jacob more ethical than buying – than owning James? What was the punishment for Jacob's crime? Where was the justice for the victim? What was a man without his principles? He felt his soul empty.

As if knowing his anguish, her arms slid around his waist in a tight grip. She had her face against his shirt as she mouthed a low, muffled "Forgive me."

Forgive her for what? For Raoul? For not wanting him to kill Jacob? For coming here, or for staying? At that moment, as he held her in his arms, her breath brushing his chest, he knew he would never be free again. He knew that if she left, he would follow, if only to watch her from afar. He knew that if she stayed, for whatever reason she stayed, he would be beside her in any role she chose for him. Forgiveness didn't matter at all. Understanding didn't matter at all. Even truth and ugly, disturbing memories had no use anymore. She wasn't to blame for anything. He had surrendered to her, and he was the one who needed her, who would never be whole without her. That night, they fell asleep in their clothes, on his bed, holding each other. A strange feeling of relief overwhelmed him. No physical intimacy could have replaced that.

II II II

Alexander had been right. Truth didn't mean much. It was too subjective. In the very perception of it lay its own worst enemy. Erik tried to be calmer. He tried to give Christine the space to talk to him, to offer her own perception of the truth. But that wasn't easy. James' bad mood only got worse. His own mood followed one step behind.  
Even if truth was elusive, lies were always there. Palpable, solid, building a thin but unbreakable glass wall between him and Christine. They never got back to what they had had before Raoul's visit. No matter how short that bliss had been, it now seemed enormous, as an era long lost with no chance of coming back. Intimacy was never sought by either of them the week that followed, and the distance between them seemed to get farther apart. At this point, he was ready to forgive anything, whatever it was, no matter how absurd it may have been. He had thought of everything anyway. But how can one forgive something when it wasn't even addressed? What if she didn't want to ask for forgiveness? What if she wanted time to decide? That thought was eating at him as he walked on the narrow road that afternoon. What if he had a chance to change her mind and wasted it by waiting?

His previous anger had subsided by now. The argument that had taken place with James hadn't been the first of these last days. It had just been fiercer than at any other time, and he was to blame for it. The pattern had been more or less the same: James wanting to go to the village, meeting his unexplained denial. That morning, Erik had felt his patience wearing extremely thin with that particular matter.

"You won't go to the village. Take my word for it!" Would he have spoken like that if there hadn't been that abomination of a deal with Jacob? He probably would have, but now he'd always doubt himself. Was he becoming a master? Had he been talking like a master?

"No, I won't take your word! Who are you that I should blindly obey you? God? You are not my father to tell me what to do!"

Christine had seemed shocked by the boy's manner.

What could have evoked a smile in any other case had now only inflamed Erik's rage. It wasn't James' way to talk like this, and Erik's worst fear was for James to find out the truth about the "deal." Erik had never dealt with his fears gracefully.

"You will do as I say, and not set a foot in your mother's store or anywhere near the village for that matter, or you will dearly regret it!" His voice had been low but gravely serious.

"What will you do? Break my other hand?" James had been right. What was the difference between his words and Jacob's threats? Now he could see it. At that moment, he had only felt the blood throbbing in his temple. He had approached James, trying very hard to keep his voice under control.

"I don't break children's hands, James." He hadn't raised his voice. Christine's frightened stare had alarmed him enough to keep him composed.

"I'm not a child!" James had yelled in his face, sending any sense of self-control away.

"If you are not a child, mark this in your mind. I can make your worst nightmare a living truth before your very eyes! Now leave, boy."

James had looked shaken, but hadn't taken a step. Probably he hadn't been able to move.

"I said leave! Leave me! Out of my sight!" Erik had yelled, and it was Christine who had taken James by the shoulders and dragged him out of the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Erik had seen James leaning against the hallway wall, his legs too weak to support him. Christine had enclosed him in her arms, not caring about the child's weak protests. She had held him tightly until he had given up. She had kept holding him until the trembling had subsided. Only then had she put some distance between them and wiped the tears from his eyes. His freckles had disappeared under his deep blush. He had obviously felt ashamed of his tears. Erik hadn't been able to avert his eyes from them.

"Erik loves you! More than you know!" Christine had said passionately, looking at the boy's distressed face.

Erik had felt his own face grow hot.

"I don't care!" James had muttered under his breath and run to his room, closing the door behind him with a thud. Erik couldn't blame him.

Horse's hooves broke the silence of the fields. Sometimes, travelers chose that road as a shortcut to Swindon. Erik turned to see a lone, thin-looking rider approaching, and stepped toward the hedges to make way. He felt the hair rising at his nape, his body alerting him to something his mind didn't comprehend yet. He turned again towards the traveler, but didn't have the time for even a good glance at the man. He just glimpsed something moving rapidly towards his head, and fell, slamming down hard against the damp soil.


	27. Abattoir

It's Monday, so greetings to all!

Thank you all for reading this story! Your reviews surely make my day… ;-)

My deepest gratitude to Desiree and TOWDNWTBN for their efforts—life is getting very interesting lately!

* * *

**Chapter 27- Abattoir**

He was lying on the floor. No, it wasn't the floor. It felt more like the wooden panel he had once used to avoid sleeping on the cold, muddy, stone-covered ground. He smelled the same moisture, the mud, the damp, rotten wood. He had unsuccessfully tried to draw his bony legs to his body, to fit into the small, narrow space. If it hadn't been for the bars, it would have been suffocating. He already felt suffocated now...

"If you get any taller, I'll cut your legs, freak!" he heard his master's angry retort. Why was _he _angry? Had he been eating more? Probably. He wasn't able to help it. He always felt hungry. "It may be a good idea, anyway." The man's voice sounded amused. "More money!"

He tried in vain to wrap his arms around his knees to warm himself. He quit trying. It was pointless. It was cold, and his sleeves were hardly long enough to cover his elbows. His clothes were shrinking. That was why the cold felt sharper. Long arms, longs legs.

"Like a spider," the master said in disgust. "Freak child, a treasure! Freak adult… pathetic!" Maybe the man was right. If adulthood was worse than childhood for freaks…maybe he should stop eating…. he wasn't even hungry now. Just cold. He shivered. His legs, his hands felt like ice. If only he had some sort of blanket to cover his bony, spider-like legs….

No, he didn't have bony legs anymore. He wasn't a freak child, anymore. The man had lied. Childhood for freaks was worse than….

Where was he?

Erik tried to shake his head, to concentrate on his surroundings, but he hit against something, and the hard stab of pain made him dizzy.

Where was he?

He forced himself to open his eyes. To fight the pain and just look. Even for a second. That would be enough. It was the only way to see where he was.

"Open your eyes!" He had to inwardly order himself twice to feel his eyelids actually flutter. If he could move his hands, he would check his eyes, his face. It made no difference. His eyes must have been open, for the pain in his head had doubled, but he couldn't see a thing. He closed them as darkness enveloped him.

II II II

Darkness was a friend. Light had always stung his eyes, and seeking light had turned more painful than he had ever imagined it could be. He smiled to himself. If he could smile at the irony, if he could think, he was better off than before. How long ago had that been? He checked his hands and legs. No movement of more than a few inches was possible. They were stiff and numb, but that had to be expected. He opened his eyes again. The same pain. The same darkness. Erik had never been afraid of the dark. After all, he had an advantage there. He knew he just needed time. Just a few minutes of tolerating that pain. Just a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the tiniest source of light. Just a few minutes for his ears to concentrate on the tiniest source of sound. Why did it feel like centuries?  
Where was the light? Where was the sound?

He felt so tired of waiting. No, it wasn't tiredness. A sort of vertigo, maybe. Maybe it would be better if he closed his eyes for a while…only until the giddiness subsided. Then he would search for the light again.

II II II

If only he could stretch his legs! His muscles ached. Normally, he would welcome that different kind of pain. It could send the dizziness away, but not this time. He had to concentrate. Check the surroundings. He tried to move each leg. One at the time: the left; the right. Not more than a few inches before his boot hit something hard, and a hollow noise was heard. He did the same with his hands despite his stiff muscles. Fewer inches available there. His knuckles produced the same slight, familiar sound. If only his ears weren't buzzing from the headache….

It didn't matter. He just had to focus more. If someone had tied his legs, had he also tied his hands to his torso? No. His eyes? Was the darkness so deep he couldn't see? There was no time to waste. He would do what he had been avoiding doing. He would lift his head despite the pain and take a good look. It wouldn't take much, just a look. The faster he decided it, the better.

Abruptly, he lifted his head, hitting it with all the force of his swift movement against something no more than two inches above. His mask—was he still wearing his mask? – made a grinding, sliding noise against the rough surface. The pain in his head was unbearable. He took some deep breaths, the air heavy, filling his lungs, as he waited for the ache to subside a little before turning his head and slowly raising it to the obstacle above him. Now, it was his unblemished cheek that touched the solid surface. He moved his face smoothly against it. The same soundless darkness was enveloping him again, until a smell registered in his mind. Damp wood. And splinters against his cheek. He let his head fall as recognition sank in.

His chest felt constricted; the sound of his heart fiercely hammering against his ribs was deafening him, now. Of their own accord, legs and open palms moved simultaneously outward in all directions, colliding only with hard wood, hitting against it with all the might his stiff muscles and the confined space allowed him as the suffocating sense of shocked disbelief clouded his mind.

He was locked inside a closed coffin.

II II II

It could have been no more than a few hours.

His first ridiculous thought was discarded in shame. He had heard of people buried because they looked dead, their corpses found turned, limbs repositioned by their frantic efforts to escape those coffins – and all this horror undiscovered until years later. That wasn't the case now. Christine would never let that happen to him. There wasn't any room left for him to turn, either.

He had remembered with effort the rider hitting him. Erik was certain it hadn't been Jacob. One of his friends maybe? Had he called for help?

He had located five small holes in the casket at the level of his chest. When he filled his lungs with air, his rising chest blocked the holes. He had to keep his breathing even and shallow, or the air seemed to end rapidly in the confined space, and he had to wait to fill up again.

"It could be no more than a few hours," he consoled himself. There was no way to tell in that absolute darkness. His neck hurt from his effort to keep his eyes locked on the holes in case some light appeared. He carefully let his head fall back again. Now the pain was focused on the left part of his skull. That could be considered an improvement. If only it weren't so sharp….

It could not have been more than few hours that he had lain there, in the coffin. He would manage to escape and go back to Red Door Cottage. Maybe he had not even been missed yet. He smiled at the thought. Christine wouldn't even have to know he had spent such an adventurous afternoon. Maybe he would take her in his arms—with fresh clothes, of course. That damp smell was far worse than the smell of the cellars at the Opera House.

He tried to remember what he had been thinking about Christine, but he found he couldn't. He remembered the dark circles ringing her eyes. She had looked so tired lately. He had made her life difficult. He felt so tired, too. His previous shock-induced energy had left him drained. If only he could sleep for five minutes! No more than five minutes of sleep were necessary. His mind would be clear then. He could rest his eyes. No point in having his eyes open in that darkness.

II II II

He brushed his unmasked cheek over the flat wooden surface. He did that every time he opened his eyes and after checking for light. Darkness was still hopeful. The sun hadn't risen yet. He could have spent the night at the Twin House. He hadn't done it in months, but who would notice? He still had time. He still felt disoriented, but that was acceptable. He couldn't trust his memory. Every minute was no different from the next, from the previous one.

He checked again. No light. No sound. Rough wood against his whiskers. He felt his throat tighten. Whiskers didn't lie. He couldn't bring his hand to his face to check, but the stubble on his face turning to whiskers meant only one thing. Time was passing by. All his estimations based on morning light were wrong. He was in a room with no windows. No light would ever enter through the holes unless they wanted it to. Who were they? He was sure it was more than one man. Now he had no other option. No time to waste. He had to collect himself. He had to think.

II II II

People lived with the certainty they would die of old age. Even though more children died than adults did, that certainty, that hope, was what made them strong enough to endure the pain of loss, of their own mortality.

When Erik had first made his underground home, he had put a coffin in his chambers. He had even slept in it sometimes, enjoying the morbid reality it reflected. This rather macabre habit of his had been taken during his days in Persia. As a man who had evoked more fear than Death himself—death could be merciful, after all—he needed something to remind him of his own mortality. A cure for vanity, and a very powerful influence on his enemies. Who could have scared, threatened, or manipulated a man who was not afraid of Death? Who even mocked Death? Inviting him, embracing him. He had used Death to make a reputation, and that had provided him a good life.

To be honest, Erik was still not afraid of his life ending. What he always found unsettling was the way it would end, and the humiliation it might involve. He couldn't complain now. He even had his mask on.

Death was a constant companion, friend and confidant. He had nothing to be afraid of. Better men than he had found their fragile lives ending in the most sudden of ways. He smiled at the thought, and the smile turned into a deep, short-lived laugh as his lungs protested the lack of air. He had to save his strength. He would be laughing when the first shovelfuls of soil crashed onto the coffin._ His _coffin. That would leave a memorable impression on Jacob and his partners. He would save his most demonic laughter for that hour. His renewed smile and dry throat evoked a cough that almost choked him.

He had to admit he had underestimated Jacob. Maybe he was the weakest link in his gang. The muscles. Did they value their partner so much that they had designed this elaborate kind of retribution? This type of theater was more than he would have expected from ordinary cons.

He remembered that he had been asked in Persia to create something like this, but he had detested the very concept. This kind of captivity, which stripped away any kind of stimulus, slowly dehumanizing the victim, taking all his senses from him, one by one—firstly the sense of time—leaving him caged until his own dirt and body worked against him…. Disgusting!

He had refused. He had always found forcing a man to _explore_his own limits a far more interesting concept. After all, it wasn't something he hadn't done himself.

Still, he couldn't help thinking that this whole scenario was far more clever than something any friend of Jacob's could have created. Taking away a man's dignity in a step-by-step process, making him forget who he was, had always been the shortest way to break his spirit, to render him a pawn with no will, no resistance. Had he been so wrong about James' stepfather?

II II II

He was thirsty! His throat was raw and dry. Every attempt to swallow evoked a cough that choked him, leaving him weaker than before. He had tried to push himself against the wood, to kick, to hit it with his elbows. Nothing happened. The coffin moved a little, but the wood was hard; he wasn't strong enough.

He didn't know whether he slept or just blinked anymore. His sense of time was escaping him. He had tried to measure it. He had been listening to music in his head. A piano, a violin, even a cello, its full deep sound calming him after every futile attempt. He had given up. It'd been at least three hours of inward humming music, and who knew how many hours of that sick kind of sleep, since the last time he had tried to kick at the wood with his knees. If it had been rotten, it would have been easier. Still, he wouldn't last that long.

A drop of water landed on his neck. He opened his eyes, alarmed. Was it raining and falling through the roof? Who cared? He angled his head, raising it to the wood, taking in as many of the drops as he could reach. He smiled, remembering Dr McKinnan's lectures about contamination through water. At this point, he could drink anything.

II II II

He first heard the voice, and then his eyes captured the faintest shadow of light. He held his breath, trying to listen to the men talking.

"Are you a simpleton?" The man who spoke sounded angry, his voice cold, impatient. "Why didn't you stick with the plan?"

"It's not my fault!" the other man replied. "I was just following orders. I told them—"

"Everyone is making decisions now. As if you had done it before! When my brother arrives, he will be angry with all of you for listening to this moron." Steps were heard, and the light became a little brighter. "Cretins!" The steps stopped.

"Who told you to leave the coffin on the floor? If we wanted him dead, why waste our time?"

The voice became lower even though Erik was certain that the man was still in the room.

"Has he awakened?" the voice asked guardedly.

"He was beating himself up again last night. Then he was quiet."

"Did you hit him too hard? We don't want him vomiting in there. If he drowns himself, he'll be useless."

"He's fine. He was even laughing the day before. Crazy freak!"

"He's stronger than I thought. Couldn't your imbecile of a boss have found a worse place than this? Look at all this mud! My boots are ruined. Take two men and lift the coffin up over there. And don't forget the water…" the man's voice faded as he left the room.

Darkness didn't seem as gloomy as before. Black was a nice color after all. Erik tried to repeat their words in his mind. He wanted to remember everything. He was sure there was something he had missed. Something was bothering him, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

II II II

"We know who you are, M. Rochelle." The same voice Erik had heard before addressed him now for the first time. Everything was clearer now that he had heard them speak. He hadn't let himself fall asleep. He hadn't made a sound while he was being lifted from the ground. To his dismay, the men who had performed this task hadn't spoken a word. Later, more drops of water had soaked the wood at the level of his face. It hadn't been rain after all.

"We are no amateurs. On the contrary!" the man continued, fully aware Erik was listening to him by the stirring movements he made inside the confined space. "It might be safe to claim we have managed to transform our deeds into pure art. Think! A man of your knowledge…a man of your experience!"

Erik remained silent as the same feeling as before-that he was missing something essential-bothered him.

"I assume you are awake by now, M. Rochelle." Impatience laced the man's voice.

"Not being able to provide a more _spacious _coffin is a trait of amateurs." Erik hardly recognized the strained, hoarse whisper as his own voice. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was extremely dry. "Or… that is the whole purpose, I guess," he concluded when there was no answer from the man. It made sense. The worse it felt, the faster he'd comply with any request.

"You are a smart man, Erik. I can call you Erik…?"

"I am in no position to forbid it," Erik replied caustically.

"Please, do not think I am disrespectful. Gathering information about you evoked a great deal of admiration for your_ abilities_. To be on the safe side, I inform you that all the men guarding you wear wax in their ears. You'd better save your breath for our conversations." The man sounded amused.

"Is that what all this is about? Jacob?"

"You are insulting us! His case was just a much appreciated demonstration of what you are capable of. No matter how impressed we are, we mean business."

"Business?"

"A transaction which will take place after we release you. You are a wealthy man, Erik. See it as a kind of redistribution—"

Was this all about money? Of all his sins, _wealth _was the one he would get punished for? Erik let a smile color his tone.

"If you are going to release me, why should I comply with your blackmail?"

"We are not blackmailing you, Erik. We know you are the only one who can arrange the transfer. You are going to pay for our services and our silence. We don't want to aggravate you. See? We have even left your mask on! We have invested a lot of time and effort in your case—"

"I am flattered," Erik replied solemnly. "Bring your shovel! I'm not making any deal with you."

"You underestimate us! And that only spoils the game," the man said, his voice becoming curt. Erik felt the hair on his nape rising. What kind of game was this?

"Consider us collectors of experiences," the man continued cordially, after a pregnant silence. "Of course, there has to be a prize, a reward for our efforts. We have to maintain our way of living. We have ways to watch you, ways to make sure you will follow our instructions to the letter. We know you are entitled to some apprehension, some disbelief, but you have to understand it is not our intention to hurt you or your loved ones." That last phrase was spoken in a soft, gentle voice that certainly didn't fool Erik. He felt more alert than ever.

"I have to confess, I had great expectations of you and your understanding. Face it, Erik, if you were not inside that coffin, you could be one of us. You could share the thrill. And still, you were the perfect choice. Few will miss you, but you would miss them so much more if something unexpected were to happen. If we can do this to you…" He let his voice trail off. "I have often wondered what makes a strong man weak…" the man continued as if talking to himself. "I'll leave you to consider what we have talked about. I will come back tomorrow with more details."

"Wait! Who are you?" Erik asked in the same raspy voice. "What shall I call you?" He changed the question as he doubted the man would reveal his true identity. A light, appreciative laugh was heard fading as the man seemed to walk away.

"You _are _good! I've told him you are! You can call us whatever you like! As long as you give us what we want, you can even call us Jane and Gillian!"

II II II

Erik waited for at least two whole hours before attempting any movement. Meanwhile, he had been stretching his muscles the best he could, allowing the blood to flow and sending some of the stiffness away. The first crushing questions—who were these people? What did they really know about him? How far would they dare to go?—were easily shoved away. This was hardly the time or the place for analysis. That man's words about his "loved ones" and his soft, compassionate, highly disconcerting and clearly dishonest tone were more difficult to erase from his mind. They had knotted up his stomach, and Erik needed his mind blank as soon as possible. It was important to remember everything later, but at the moment, he didn't need the devastating sensation that innocent people could be in danger because of him. He couldn't think of their names; he exiled their faces from his mind, for they evoked the deepest fear he had ever felt.

II II II

It wasn't the first time he had tried. It wasn't even the tenth. He braced himself and repeated the motion. He moved to the left with all his might, moving his body as if it were a solid rock, trying to move the whole coffin to one side. His first plan to turn it over had been quickly abandoned. Now, he just tried to slide it across the surface it was lying on, hoping he correctly remembered the men's movements as they had lifted it, hoping he wasn't pushing it towards a wall or something similarly solid.

"Wax in their ears?" They probably didn't work with Jacob, but they surely had heard about him. He couldn't stop hearing that man's cocky voice in his mind. One more push, a few more inches. He welcomed the anger, the raw fury that sent hot blood pumping through his veins. Another push, a few more inches to the left. He didn't feel the pain in his head anymore. One more move to the left. Now his entire left side was hurting, but he didn't stop to think about it. A few more inches. Now, he was thankful for the wax in their ears. He was thankful they had left him alone in the dark room. It was not as if he had anywhere to go. Another swift shove to the left. For the first time, he felt a kind of jolt, as if the coffin were partly in the air. He took a deep breath and guided all his force into the push, the coffin diving to the ground, producing a loud thud. The crash to the floor didn't break the casket completely, but the gaps allowed Erik to kick his way out. He rolled himself to the ground, checking the gash in his brow that the fall had earned him with his hand.

Light blinded him as the door opened wide. He gasped as the whole room spun around him. His legs were still weak, his arms numb, but he stilled himself against the wall, taking in the surroundings. He was in an abandoned abattoir. Butcher hooks were all around the walls; more were hanging from the ceiling. Wide, tall workbenches were attached to the walls.

The man entering the room was more stunned than he was. Erik stood at full height as the man, probably the thin rider, swung the sword he was holding with two hands, brandishing the blade as if holding a broomstick. Erik felt a faint smile forming on his face. That man was no swordsman. Erik took some steps, keeping his back to the wall and the benches, trying to approach the door, keeping the thin man's clumsy attempts to trap him at bay. Oblivious to his intentions, the thin man followed his steps, finding himself inside the room now and Erik closer to the door. The blood from the cut on his brow was blinding Erik. He swept it away with the back of his hand, ready to parry the thin man's awkward movements with the sword, when he felt the tip of a knife at his throat and a harsh blow at his kidney that brought him to his knees.

"Don't make a move, bastard." The man dragged him two steps backwards, the tip of the dagger dipping into his throat. Set free by the boundaries of flesh, a thick drop of blood ran across Erik's chest.

"Don't kill him, Spencer!" The thin man yelled. The man holding Erik groaned at the unnecessary use of his name, but lessened the pressure on his throat.

Erik didn't think twice. He shoved him hard, aiming with his elbow at the man's chest, sending all air out of his lungs. He had underestimated the power of Spencer's grip on him. Falling backwards, the surprised man didn't let go of him, the sharp blade slicing through cloth and skin at the base of Erik's throat. The hot blood soaking his shirt gave Erik a clarity he hadn't thought possible in his state. Quickly evaluating the seriousness of the cut and thinking himself lucky, he grabbed the shocked Spencer's hand. Without too much thought, Erik sent the dagger flying across the room to the thin man. A red stain grew on the man's shirt, in the middle of his chest, like a red rosebud bursting into bloom.

Turning his back to the thin man's stunned face, Erik stood up, looking at Spencer, who was still gasping for air. He didn't trust his legs' stability enough to kick him.

"Tell me your boss's name," he ordered the man, searching the room with his eyes for something to use as a weapon.

The man snarled, baring his teeth. "You don't know what you are dealing with," he said, sitting on the floor with that smile, looking at the blood trickling down Erik's chest from the slash on his throat. Spencer was clearly measuring him.

"How many are involved in this?"

Spencer threw a wary look over his shoulder. Erik knew he didn't have the luxury of time. He contemplated the idea of letting Spencer live.  
_"A good gardener takes care of the weeds."_He didn't let Christine's appalled face at hearing his words linger on his memory. Erik raised his hand and pulled hard at a chain hanging from the ceiling with a flesh hook attached at the end. He took a decisive step towards the man.

II II II

Erik left the ruins of the slaughterhouse as fast as he could. Only after almost half an hour of running as fast as his shaky legs allowed did he stop to see where he was heading. Hands on his knees, he puffed with exertion, his lungs still thirsty for full, deep breaths.

The drizzle had turned into a heavy downpour. He raised his face to the sky, looking at the raindrops falling in a steady stream. No stars would guide him home.

Italy! Why hadn't he chosen Italy instead of this wretched island where the rain never stopped?

He looked around, trying to make use of the last light of dusk. The thin man on the horse couldn't have carried him alone a long distance away from familiar ground. Except if he had had help Erik had missed.

The thought stole Erik's hope. He groaned with despair. What wouldn't he give for a mountain, a hill, a natural landmark that would help him find his way out of that forest? He walked with the hesitation of a blind man, not knowing whether he was moving closer or farther away from home, when a sound broke through the familiar patter of the rain. A swift-running stream! And he was so thirsty! Could it be the same stream he had followed after his encounter with Jacob? He didn't have any other choice. His feet started running of their own accord.

II II II

Red Door Cottage and Twin House were like two beacons in the middle of the night. Every room at the Red Door Cottage was illuminated as if someone were throwing a party. The same applied to the ground-floor rooms at the Twin House.

Erik felt tears sting his eyes. How many hours had he walked, run, stumbled, to find his way home? He moved closer slowly, taking a look at his dirty, blood-soaked clothes and the disheveled, terrible state he was in. He walked guardedly towards the back of the Red Door Cottage, thinking of the awful possibility that Spencer's friends might be in the house.

"Erik?" Christine's soft voice, laced with disbelief, reached his ears. What was she doing in the garden after midnight on a rainy night like this? He turned towards the voice only to see her silhouette approaching, dark against the light emanating from the cottage. She ran to him, stopping in her tracks one step before colliding with him. He was thankful for that. He didn't trust his legs.  
She was looking at him as if looking at a ghost.

"Is everyone well? James? Emily? Has anyone hurt you?" he asked hastily, seeing her remove the hood of her cloak. She nodded at his first question, seemingly unable to speak. "Is any stranger in the house?"

"Only Alexander. He came two days after you…had been gone…" Her voice trembled and broke. Two days?

"How many days—?"

"Four."

His eyes widened in shock. Had he been four days in that coffin? Her arm slid around his waist. Erik took a step back in protest.

"My clothes are dirty... I am a mess," he whispered. Her grip around his waist tightened. He muffled a groan as she touched a tender bruise. They took a step toward the house. Suddenly, he felt he had to drag his feet.

"Erik, what is that blood?" Christine asked in a strained voice.

"It is not my blood." He remembered Spencer's lamentable state when he had left him lying on the floor. Maybe this was the time to tell her, not drag it out, to try to find the right way.

"Christine, I killed two people." Was this miserable, faint sound his own voice?

He sighed deeply when he felt no sign of her retreating. Christine moved to stand before him, her arm still around his waist. He wanted to see her eyes, he wanted to remember her face, her expression, to think it over later, but it was dark, and the only thing he could think of was how many more steps would be needed until he found a place to sit for a while.

He felt her other hand cupping his exposed cheek, sliding around his neck. It was then that she took a step back, moving her thumb against her fingers, trying to see something in the light coming from the kitchen window.

"What is that?" she murmured to herself, a deep frown wrinkling her brows.

Erik moved his hand to his neck, surprised not by the wetness he found there, since he was soaked to the bone, but by the warmth of the sticky liquid against his cold skin.

"Maybe my blood, too, after all." His voice trailed off, his miserable attempt at a smile failing. He growled. It couldn't be more than ten steps away from the nearest chair. Her withdrawing her arm from his waist had left him a little off balance. He was trying to steady his next step when his knees betrayed him. Once more, darkness enveloped him.


	28. Don Juan

Greetings to all!

It's Monday again, and I hope you had a nice weekend.

Thank you all for reading and reviewing (hint-hint) this story.

My deepest, eternal, everlasting (no! I didn't run out of synonyms, I mean every word!) gratitude to Desiree and TOWDNWTBN for their efforts. They are great and deserve the best in their lives!

* * *

**Chapter 28 - Don Juan **

"There you are! Embroidery is definitely not the best of my numerous, impressive talents…" Alexander Arnaud said earnestly, examining his work with a critical eye.

Erik looked at the man's work with dull interest.

"It is fine, I guess."

"I tried to use as few stitches as possible. It provides prettier scars," Alex said matter-of-factly, tossing a piece of wet linen cloth to Erik, who grabbed it mid-air and started brushing the sutured gash at the base of his throat.

"As if that would make any difference," Erik replied mockingly, looking at his reflection in the mirror. It would take more than the long bath and the good night's sleep he had already had for him to start resembling his previous, hardly-charismatic-looking self.

He cleaned the ugly-looking wound and pressed a finger to the multiple bruises on the left side of his torso. Not letting Christine see him in that state was definitely a wise decision. Not that he had seen her much since he had regained his senses last night. After putting on a fresh shirt from his wardrobe, he firmly secured the new mask he wore and picked a pair of silver cufflinks from the drawer.

"Watch it over there!" Alexander's voice warned him. "I would be careful if I were you. It's a delicate spot, and the raggedness of the wound doesn't make for rapid healing. You'll have to watch how you move for a couple of days. I wouldn't want you ruining my artistic efforts!"

"I thought you didn't consider yourself talented in that particular field," Erik replied mockingly, but suddenly recalled his antagonist's words from last night about transforming_ their _deeds into a form of art. If only he knew who _they _were!

"I am an artist in everything I do!" Alexander bragged, his usual smirk softening his features. "I need a shave, too," he muttered, brushing a hand over the black stubble that gave him a savage look.

"Help yourself, artist." Erik buttoned his shirt as he walked about the bedroom. "What is that noise? Who is downstairs?" he asked guardedly.

"Who knows? It could be a number of people. Mrs. Oliveer is a frequent guest…  
my sentiments exactly," Alex said, probably seeing Erik's frown of distaste. The cut on his brow reminded Erik to avoid frowning for a while.  
"James' father must have been nothing less than a god for James to have turned into such a nice boy with_ her _as a mother! You do have a full house, lately. Dr. McKinnan, Mr. Hamilton for occasional deliveries, even Mary with her mother, Mrs. Campbell, has been here once."

"Mary?"

"To see James. Don't look at me! It wasn't my idea. Nice looking girl, though, and smart."

"I see women have solved the problem of 'village visits' by bringing the village into my house!" Frustration laced Erik's voice.

"What is the problem with that? You are too gloomy, my friend! For me, having people around is like music to my ears!"

"You have bad taste in music, then. I happen to value my privacy," Erik replied in a cold voice.

He watched Alexander lean against the books that covered the panel, razor in hand, his half-shaved face providing a grotesque sight enhanced by the half smile lingering on his face.

"Perhaps you would like to elaborate for ordinary, non-musical, non-artistic people like me," he said mockingly. "And don't start on the benefits of privacy in life."

"Are you certain all the information you have gathered about your brother is valid?"  
Erik asked warily, watching with satisfaction as Alex's pleasant mood dissolved rapidly.

"Absolutely certain! I trust these people with my life!" Alexander replied solemnly.

"Do you trust them with other people's lives, too?" Erik asked in a clipped voice.  
"Christine's? James'? Emily's?"

Alex raised his brow in a defiant gesture, but the color slowly drained from his face.

"I admit your _robbed in the woods and wandered around _story has some gaps, Erik. I think it is time to tell me what, exactly, has happened these last four days."

II II II

"Someone wants to play mind games with me," Erik said, sitting in his leather armchair with a cup of his smoked Russian tea in hand.

"I pity the man who would try such a thing," Alexander replied, without a trace of humor in his voice.

"Normally, I would be confident…now…there is so much at stake. I can't concentrate." Christine had served him his tea, taking a sip before handing it to him, and had left the two men alone in the library. This ritual, combined with her distant attitude, was definitely not helping his concentration.

"I have this feeling that I've missed something important. Like a mental note left for later, but I can not recall what it is—" Erik said, pressing his fingers to his temple to ease some of the pain away.

"Do you think they are as organized as they say?"

"They had two men guarding a nailed coffin! They _are _organized!" Erik stated.

"But you managed to escape. Do they know about you?"

"Perhaps I might have found out if I had stayed one more day, but somehow that didn't seem a good idea at the time," Erik replied, a sarcastic smile on his face.

"What I cannot take out of my mind is the possibility that the man who asked Lady Arnaud about you was a different man from the one Nadir mentioned in his letter. If they were gathering information back then, it is a whole different case."

"The potential writer—"

"I really don't know who could be more harmful in the long run, though. An author writing nonsense about you or someone wanting ransom. If you think about it, money could be a small price…" Alex's voice trailed off as he played with the handle of his cane.

That moment, Emily entered the room after a soft, shy knock on the door.

"I brought some chicken tarts for both of you. Lunch will be late, and you have to build up your strength," she said, her eyes locked on Erik.

He tried not to stare at her swollen belly. Emily's face was more rounded now, her voice sweeter. Motherhood would suit her fine.

"There was a letter for you in the box." Emily left the envelope on the arm of his chair and headed towards the door.

"Where is Christine?" Erik asked absentmindedly, tracing the elaborate handwriting on the creamy envelope with his finger.

"Cooking… but she is safe," Emily added hastily after Erik's alarmed stare.

Only when the two men were alone in the library did Erik read the short message with a frown. He sighed, and read it once more aloud.

_"We hardly blame you for preferring your own comfortable accommodations. Let us not allow hard feelings to spoil our business transaction. It is time you got in touch with Monsieur Pineaut. You will receive the final details and instructions by the end of the month._

_PS: Is Erinyes a good name for us? Do your people know what you did before you came to England?"_

"What does it mean?" Alex asked, puzzled.

"They couldn't care less for their casualties. The game is still on. I have to start preparations with my accountant in France."

"And you have less than a fortnight to decide what to do."

II II II

Erik walked absentmindedly along the shore of the lake. It was as warm as a late November day could have been, and the sunshine and a soft breeze made him regret having put on a coat before leaving the house.

Gathering his thoughts was not an easy task. Alexander had warned him that Christine hadn't taken his absence well but had not provided any details. Erik wanted to talk to her, but how much information would be too much, too scary for her? What was the safest way to proceed? Alexander's assessment of the situation had been a calm one, but Erik was already convinced of _their_ intentions. He had no doubt _they _were watching him, perhaps even checking his mail. For them, nothing had been left to chance.

What were his options? All his impulses told him to stand up and fight them. No one had ever managed or even dared to threaten him before. Were they idiots or just over-confident? He remembered the man's words. _They had done it before. _To whom? To some placid English aristocrat? No doubt they were successful if that were the case. He imagined someone like Raoul locked into a coffin. No matter how pleasant the thought, Erik could not but acknowledge that Raoul had never risked Christine's safety in such a manner as _he _did now. Christine would have been safer if she had left with her husband when he had come for her, and that was an unbearable thought.

What should he do? How wise would fighting them be when there was so much he didn't know? Who were they? How much did they actually know? He couldn't risk sending the women away. He didn't know how they would react upon seeing themselves lose such leverage on him.

He watched James come running towards him.

"There is a new ghost note. You said you wanted any letter that came…"

Erik took the note from the boy's hands.

_"'Disease and Death make ashes of all the fire that flamed for us.'"_ What was this nonsense? "_You will hear from us; Jane and Gillian." _Erik crushed the paper in his hand, only to unfold it again, trying to straighten the crumpled edges.

They were toying with him. They were showing their power just to keep him under control and under pressure, since they didn't hold him captive anymore. It was a very strange kind of siege. Erik gave the letter to James. How long had _they _sent these notes? How long had he missed it?

"Go to the library and find all the ghost notes we have kept. Search all the drawers, and leave them on my desk in order. Ask Emily if she has any." He saw James hesitate.

"Christine told me not to let you wander around," the boy said with a comical frown on his freckled face. He was caught in the middle. It would be interesting to see who had the strongest hold on James. Erik inwardly bet on Christine's charm.

"Did she?" Erik restrained his smile at seeing James blushing. "What are you? My keeper? My _father_?" he teased him. James went pale.

"Look, Erik…" All the formalities Erik hadn't dared to break during his years living with James had been broken by some unexpected events and a few verbal fights. Erik liked that. He smiled at the boy reassuringly. "I want to apologize… for what I said that day…" James' voice trailed off.

"You have nothing to apologize for," Erik replied earnestly. "At least, no more than I do."

"When you did not come back that first night—" the boy's voice broke.

"Did you think that I had left like an oversensitive prima donna?" Erik laughed to send some of the boy's tension away. "It would take far more than that to keep me away, James. A lot more." The same teasing tone laced his voice.

"I know I am not your father, James. I will never have a child, but if I did, I would be proud if he were half as smart and brave as you are." Erik watched the boy avert his eyes to hide his emotion. "Fewer freckles would be preferable, though," he added with a smile. They started walking down the small path by the shore. "I would be the last one to wish to enslave you… the first one who would understand whatever you did to guarantee your freedom…even against me. There are no boundaries to what a man can do for his freedom. When I had to fight for it, I didn't hesitate." He had the boy's full attention, but he couldn't find the heart to give more details.

"In the coming days, I may ask you to do things for me that could be against your will. I know you don't want to leave the village, your mother…I don't ask you to _obey_ me or follow your employer's instructions. I will ask you as a friend in need, trusting you will reveal nothing about this. If you should find it in your heart to trust_ me _or consider me a friend…" This time it was Erik's voice that broke. He knew he would probably ask more from the boy than his young shoulders could bear. But James was at risk, just as everyone else at the Red Door Cottage was.

The boy fidgeted with the note, his eyes never leaving the ground. "I will gather the ghost notes," he said after a while.

"Tell Christine I'll go as far as the Twin House. I won't be late."

"Erik, I never had a father. I don't know how it would feel to have one… but if I had one, I would like him to be exactly like you." James turned on his heel and started running towards the house.

II II II

Erik found himself full of unidentified emotions. He didn't know whether he actually wanted to comprehend what was happening to him. All he knew was that after Christine's arrival, a whole range of needs and feelings had been unveiled before him, and the most urgent of them, at the moment, was to protect the people he loved. What was the point of denying it or disguising it with rationalized excuses?

_"Erik loves you more than you know." _Was he so transparent? Christine's words to James echoed in his mind, and it felt so natural, so fitting for her to become _his _voice. He didn't know where he lacked more - in courage to acknowledge or express his feelings? All he knew was that his soul ached for the woman he had to send away.

The pain in his head had been getting worse with each beating pulse when a man jumped over the tall hedges and landed just a few feet before him. With all his senses alert, Erik traced the end of the rope inside his sleeve.

"Are you Mr. Rochelle?" The man asked in the thickest Welsh accent Erik had ever heard. His skin was as tanned as the skin of a man who spends endless hours under the sun, and he was frowning over bright blue eyes filled with anger. Anger was not something Erik expected from _them_, so he felt himself relax a little, his hand's grip on the rope firm.

"Is Emily's baby yours?" The man asked in the same angry manner.

Realization sank in.

"Are you Robert Duggan?" Erik asked, thinking the English countryside was not as safe as it used to be.

"Tell me right now, or you will count your teeth on the ground…is Emily expecting your child?"

Erik hardly appreciated the image Robert painted for him, but couldn't restrain a smile from forming on his face. Was he the _gentle Robbie_ Emily had been talking about? He noted the man's sturdy build, but failed to feel threatened by him. The smile turned into laughter as the man snarled and clenched his fists. Emily's lover thought she was cheating on him with a man with _his_ face? If not very smart, Robert Duggan was at least good-looking.

"Stop laughing! Answer me!" the man ordered, his nostrils flaring.

The whole idea was ridiculously absurd.

"Don Juan triumphs at the Red Door Cottage!" Erik said between bursts of laughter, feeling the tension that had been building inside him for days slowly release. He thought of Alexander's possible comments on all this, and his laughter grew deeper. "Beware, women of Swindon!"

He was still laughing when the man took two deliberate steps towards him and raised his strong, tanned fist into the air. It took only a light step to the right for Erik to stop Robert's fist from making contact with his face. Unfortunately, due to that step and the difference in height between the two men, the man's clenched hand landed hard against Erik's neck, breaking some of Alexander's stitches.

"Damn!"

Blood started dripping down onto Erik's shirt while the man, shocked, took a step back.  
Pressing the heel of his hand to the wound, Erik couldn't restrain a new smile at the raw guilt glinting on Robert's face.

"How—?"

"Don't take credit for that!" Erik admonished, using his handkerchief to stop the blood from soaking his shirt.

"Are you all right?" The man was looking at him in terror. "What can I do to help?"

Erik felt himself sympathizing with the man. After all, he knew the way jealousy could drive a man mad. He had walked that road step by step.

"I will be fine. I assume you are _Emily's _Robert." He emphasized the Welshwoman's name. "Emily was looking forward to seeing you. I thought _I _was, too…" He smiled at the man's miserable face.

"Do you want me to fetch you a doctor?" Robert asked in that Welsh accent of his.

"No! No doctor needed. You will just have to explain to your woman why you acted so stupidly!" That would be punishment enough.

Erik started walking hastily to the house with Robert a step behind him. When they saw the kitchen door, Erik took a look at his clothes and hesitated. This wasn't the best sight for a woman expecting a baby, who had endured so much over the last weeks. This should be a blissful moment for her.

"Erik?" As if attuned to his thoughts or simply waiting for him to return, Christine opened the door, her eyes locked on him and the awful state he had managed to return home in for the second time in fewer than two days.

"Is Emily in?" he whispered, seeing her deep frown, her burning violet eyes. Dealing with angry people seemed to be his destiny lately. He spread his arms in a gesture of surrender, trying to soothe her mood. Unlike Robert's rage, Christine's didn't evoke the faintest of smiles on Erik's face.

"She's taking her daily walk. She is not back yet," she replied gravely, approaching them.

"All the better!" Erik said joyously, trying to take her eyes away from his shirt. "Christine, let me introduce you to Robert Duggan—"

"Did you do this to him?" Christine interrupted, looking at Robert for the first time.  
The man nodded with such shame and guilt that Erik felt sorry for him.

An open-handed slap landed hard on the side of Robert's face, the force of the clearly unexpected blow sending the man's head sideways.

Erik looked at Christine, stunned. The imprints of her fingers were forming a red pattern on Robert's cheek.

Leaning against the kitchen door, Alex, who had been watching the scene from the start, threw back his head and laughed.

* * *

___**Erinyes**__: Greek avenging goddesses: in Greek mythology, three terrifying snake-haired winged goddesses, named Alecto, Megaera, and Tisiphone, who mercilessly punished wrongdoing.  
They are regarded to be the same as the Furies._


	29. Baudelaire

Greetings to all!

A new week has begun, and I want to wish well to all the new beginnings in your lives.

My best wishes to TOWDNWTBN. I'm always thankful to her and Desiree for their hard work.

Now, this is a slightly longer than usual chapter and I hope you are not bored. I also hope you are not mad at me as the major answers to the questions we all need will come in the next chapter.

Thank you for reading and reviewing!

* * *

**Chapter 29- Baudelaire **

The air of hostility inside the kitchen was thick as morning fog. Erik was sitting on a chair while Alexander replaced the broken stitches with the skill of an experienced surgeon.

"We can't let Emily see this," Christine stated, handing a cloth dipped in cold water to Robert. "For your face…"

"Where is she?" the man asked shyly.

"She takes a long walk every day. Usually, she takes the path that runs from the Red Door Cottage to the village. She ought to be home by now."

Erik snorted in anger. All his warnings for caution had been in vain. Everyone in that house had a mind of his own! Of _her_own, in Emily's case.

"I will go fetch her. Stall her until you fix this mess." Alexander gave the kitchen a meaningful glance.

"Erik, go upstairs and change. Lie down for a while if you feel dizzy. I will bring a shirt of yours to Robert, and I will clean the kitchen," Christine said with the tone of a person used to dictating orders, her eyes on the small bloodstains on the front of Robert's shirt. Erik allowed himself a cynical smile, wondering how a non-serious wound on the neck had declared him invalid in her mind. On the other hand, it felt warm to hear that caring tone in her voice when the dictator in her was silenced.

"What on earth came to you, Robert, to think of such an absurdity?" Erik sighed and stood to comply with her wishes.

"I am sorry," the man said for maybe the tenth time. "I let my jealousy prevail. I got carried away, but the note was perfectly clear…"

II II II

Emily took some deep breaths to calm herself. As she turned into the lane, she recognized Alexander Arnaud's silhouette approaching. He was walking towards her with hurried steps, his cane assisting his damaged knee. She pretended to glance back over her shoulder and quickly brushed her tears away. That man had an irritating habit of appearing at her worst possible moments and an equally disturbing habit of provoking them.

She tried not to stare at his cane, as it had been only this morning that another uncomfortable moment had occurred. He had spent all night awake, walking in the garden around the house. When he had entered the kitchen, Emily had noticed his limp getting heavier, and had offered him a chair, suggesting he should rest. Wasn't that a polite gesture? The stubborn man must have considered it a kind of personal insult, for he had arched his brow in that irritating, questioning, and sarcastic way of his.

"Why bother? It won't go away," he had said, shrugging his shoulders.

Arnaud was the last man she wanted to see at the moment – not that she favored seeing _anyone_, given the state she was in. His broad smile irritated her even more, provoking a frown. His smile faded at his first good look at her.

"You were crying," he stated almost accusingly.

"No, I wasn't!" Emily denied the obvious. Why couldn't he leave her alone?

"Who has hurt you?"

"No one!" she almost yelled, but her voice seemed hollow and lifeless to her ears.  
She felt her chin trembling at the care she heard saturating his deep voice.

His hand gripped her shoulder, keeping her in place as he asked again in a grave tone.  
"Who was it?" Why was he so stern? What was he thinking? That the big, bad wolf had chased her through the woods? She remembered Erik's warnings from that very morning. What criminal in his right mind would rob a housekeeper?

At that moment, looking at his raging eyes, at his gritted teeth, at his black, thick brows almost joined by his deep frown, Emily saw that Alexander Arnaud was a dangerous man. She didn't know how much of his friendly, joyful demeanor was an act, or how quickly he could balance between completely opposite moods, but he was capable of dangerous deeds. And just for a second, she thought it would feel nice to tell him….

"Leave me alone!" She walked past him with hasty steps, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible. He followed her, reached her, and walked beside her for a while; his steps, now, getting gradually slower than before in a silent, cunning, emotional blackmail to slow down her own pace. She did.

Once more, he rested his hand on her shoulder in an eloquent gesture, more calculated to show his need for support—a deceptive need, no doubt—than his intention to make her explain. She stopped in her tracks, her back to the tall man who stood behind her and embraced her with his shadow.

"Emily, please—" He had an intriguing accent that always made Emily dream of faraway lands she would never see, which she had never even dreamed of. Still, dreams were for the worthy ones, and all she felt was guilt. Tears streamed down her face, and Emily managed to stifle a sob. In an instant, Alex was before her again, a worried look all over his face.

"Please, tell me… who did this to you?" His voice was soft and gentle as it had been when he had wished her a life full of colors and happiness. Still, there was an edge to it, as if he were indeed afraid the bad wolf had harmed her. If it had been any other time, she would have laughed. Now, she closed her eyes in shame.

"I did this to myself. I am the only one to blame."

"I swear to God, I understand nothing!" he exclaimed.

Emily gasped at his mention of God.

"I saw Father John—" Her voice broke and fresh tears ran down her cheeks.

"Did he say something to you?" She nodded her agreement, not trusting her voice.  
He seemed relieved her predicament had to do with the priest. "Do you want me to go back and beat him?"

She raised her head, alarmed, only to see the playful look in his green eyes.

"I have a fairly good punch, and my cane can be extremely useful when I beat silly, weak old men," he said, his unique, sly smile lingering on his face.

Emily found herself smiling.

"Do you do that often? Beat old men, I mean—"

"At least twice a week. It is my good deed to the world!" Despite his light tone, he looked at her expectantly. Emily knew he would tease her, and follow her, and ask her until she finally revealed everything to him. Alexander Arnaud was a persistent man.

"He saw my belly…I am not wearing the corset anymore…" She blushed at mentioning it to him. "It wasn't difficult to understand that I am not five but seven months pregnant…" She wiped her tears with her handkerchief. "When he had finished with all he had to say to me…" She swallowed her tears, trying to appear strong, to show that nothing the priest had said could have hurt her. "…He asked me about Erik and if he was responsible…" Her blush became deeper. "I denied it, of course, but then he asked about Jamie. He knew about the money Erik gave to Jacob, and said no gentleman pays such an amount for an ordinary manservant. He asked me if I had seen anything strange in Erik's relationship with James…I didn't understand at first…" More tears welled up in her eyes. Her bottom lip trembled, and she had to bite it hard to control it.

"He put his hand on my belly and said,_ 'Swear to me, swear on your unborn child you have not seen anything strange in the way M. Rochelle treats Jamie, not a special preference, nothing strange going on between them. If you won't tell me the truth, all your sins will pass to your child.'_" She was trembling so hard now. "And I thought of all the times they had their lessons behind the locked door in the library, and there, just for a second, I hesitated."

She bit her bottom lip again until she had the taste of blood in her mouth. She didn't know whether she wanted to bite herself so hard or if it was her trembling that caused it. Alexander Arnaud stood before her, his face red with anger, his nostrils flaring. Was he mad at her as she was at herself?

"I did swear on my life, on my…" she assured him in a broken voice, in case he was worried she had created problems with the priest.

Alex muttered something that sounded like a curse, in a language she didn't recognize. He extended a hand to her, but it hesitated in midair, and he let it drop by his side.

"I should kill that man," he said under his breath, and pressed his lips into a firm line, as if trying to restrain himself from saying more. Emily heard herself sigh in relief.

"It was that moment of doubt…I feel so guilty for…and that look in his eyes, so condemnatory, as if he were piercing my very soul…" A tremor passed through her as she placed a protective hand over her belly. "Someone's walking over my grave." She tried to smile. In vain! Her hand was trembling ridiculously. She was an awful mother.

"Forget that toad's eyes! Forget everything that wicked man said!" Alex soothed her as he hesitantly placed his own large, warm hand on the trembling hand she had placed over her belly. "I swear that you have nothing to worry about." His words were spoken in a slow, clear way, as if he wanted them engraved in her memory. "I won't let anything happen to you or your baby."

How did he know that part of her guilt was for the innocent soul she should have protected? What mother swore on her unborn child's life? As if labor weren't dangerous enough for babies…fresh tears clouded her eyes.

Alexander threw his head back in despair, more low, undecipherable curses filling the air. It was then that a slight kick from inside her belly made another presence evident.  
Alex withdrew his hand hastily as if burned.

"Did I hurt you?" he whispered, flushed.

Emily smiled at his low voice – as if the baby could hear him! – and the comical, bewildered expression on his face.

"It's nothing. He does that often lately," she reassured him.

"_He_?" The usual raised brow appeared on his face. "So you want a boy!" he stated, a victorious smile on his face.

"I want a healthy baby," she replied apprehensively, walking towards the house. "And I want a strong child who will have options in life, not live driven by circumstances… That's why I want a boy."

"Then a boy it is!" His grin became broader. "I am not a magician like Erik, but I am a promising fortune teller!" He waved his cane in the air, holding it by the polished stick, leaving in sight the crystal handle with the ruby in the center. He pretended to study it for a while, furrowing his brows in mock concentration.

"Hmmm…" he carried on, pretending he was in deep thought. "Definitely a boy!" He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to see clearly. "Blond, no doubt! Two legs…two hands. No, wait! I see more! Not more hands! I see more into your future. You will hear some very happy news. No, you will see…hear…I can't tell… it is clouded. It's not science, you know! A healthy boy, happy news! Of this, I am sure," he concluded matter-of-factly.

Emily couldn't help noticing the cunning way he had managed to change the subject to make her feel better. Manipulating a conversation was only one of his talents.

"There is something else I was meaning to tell you—" she started hesitantly. The smile in his eyes faded. "I want to apologize for the ill-conceived opinion I had of you—"

"Ill-conceived?" He raised his brow, amusement lighting his dark-rimmed green eyes again.

"At first…I thought you were so full of yourself…" Her voice trailed off. His silence didn't help her. "I thought you were self-centered—"

"I am," he stated, solemnly now.

"You care about Erik, and you tried to find him…"

"That is my redeeming grace?"

"Isn't care for a friend a noble thing?" she asked, seeing his brooding face. The sound of their steps and his cane dragging against the hedges from time to time were deafeningly loud to her ears compared to his silence. She was glad they were almost at the Red Door Cottage. She concluded that Alexander Arnaud was a strange man; at least, that opinion of him hadn't changed. She fidgeted with her dress. "I apologize. I am boring you. You probably couldn't care less what I thought of you—" She smiled at him, feeling embarrassed by her boldness.

"The time I could have responded to that has passed," he replied with a cryptic smile, turning his gaze towards the man pacing the garden.

Emily followed his stare. She gasped in surprise. All shapes blurred before her as a new wave of tears emerged.

Robert, _her Robbie_, ran to her and scooped her up. His strong arms held her safely in the air. She was surprised to hear the sound of pure joy as her own laughter filled the breezy autumn afternoon.

II II II

"What do you mean he is leaving?"

"Which word do you fail to understand?" Erik lifted his eyes to meet Alexander's hardly amused face.

"When is he leaving?" Alex asked again. He seemed furious.

"He said he has to report back to his captain tomorrow morning," Erik offered while chopping a carrot.

"Tomorrow morning!" Alex tucked a long stray strand of raven hair behind his ear in an irritated manner. "Why don't they go to Swindon now to get married before he leaves?"

"Would you suggest that Emily go on horseback?" Erik replied mockingly.

"A marriage can't be arranged in a minute, Alex!" Christine commented, adding the chopped carrots to the soup and stirring.

"He can use Mr. Hamilton's cart. He's just brought your order. Or he can ride to Swindon himself, bring a priest and—"

"Keep your voice down," Christine whispered. "We don't need everyone to know…  
tea is ready. We should probably invite Mr. Hamilton, though I doubt he'll accept, now—"

"Now that_ I _am here?" Erik completed her thought, obviously irritated. "Let me do that!" he ordered, taking the kettle with the hot water and emptying it into the pot.

Christine felt relieved. The way her hands were shaking, she was afraid she would throw all the hot water on herself. Alexander was fuming. She couldn't blame him. Even Erik, despite his composed face, had seemed disappointed when Robert had explained the situation. Mad with jealousy, he had left without official permission. His entire career would be jeopardized by the thoughtless decision he had made because of an anonymous letter, which, without actually saying it, had clearly implied that Erik was responsible for Emily's "disgrace." Someone had deliberately lied. Someone from the village or someone who wanted to hurt Erik? Christine stole a quick glance at his skeptical face.

"Alex will carry this," Erik told her, and Alexander took the tray in one hand, heading towards the library.

"I can't understand how you permit this!" the man muttered under his breath.

"I don't think it is a matter of 'permission,'" Erik sighed tiredly. He looked exhausted. It was only natural after what he had been through.

"I will go ask Mr. Hamilton to join us for tea. I won't ask Mrs. Oliveer," Christine informed the men, knowing that Mrs. Oliveer would rather eat hot coal than be in the same room with Erik. She had the bad habit of wandering around the house and eavesdropping— Christine had caught her twice— but after what had happened to Jacob, she never dared look Erik in the eyes, as if eye contact would trigger a reaction she was afraid of.

"Is she here, too?" Erik asked, annoyed, entering the library.

Mr. Hamilton kindly refused the invitation, and asked permission to leave the parcels in the kitchen. He was very helpful now that James couldn't do his usual chores. Christine felt extremely guilty.

"Erik just has a short temper…" she tried to explain, but left her sentence in the middle. "If you change your mind, do not hesitate," she added without great expectations.

When she entered the library Alex was discussing the load capacity of modern ships with Robert, Emily was seated on the sofa with glassy eyes, and Erik had barricaded himself behind his desk, writing a letter. Tea was served. Christine poured herself a cup and joined Emily in silence.

"I didn't know you liked Russian tea, too," Emily commented with a faint voice, probably trying to find something to say.

Christine felt her face grow hot at seeing Erik's golden stare on her.

"I didn't know it, either. It seems I have developed a fondness for it." Christine locked her eyes on the cup, and only after seeing Emily's blush did she force herself to listen to the conversation taking place.

"You can't imagine how miserable I feel having to leave Emily again," Robert said, his blue eyes glinting with genuine sorrow. Sitting on the chair by the sofa, he grabbed Emily's hand with passion, as if trying to persuade her of the honesty of his emotions. Probably, Alex had addressed him about the matter of his trip. "Especially now…I am so sorry, Em," Robert whispered so low that only Christine, sitting beside Emily, was able to hear. The blonde woman bent her head. She wore her hair in a simple knot at the back of her head, as she usually did, her other hand resting on her belly. Nodding her head in understanding, Emily was the very image of endurance.

"Perhaps you ought to have been more thoughtful before coming here, Mr. Duggan." Alex's voice had an edge that had been missing before.

Christine looked at him. He was leaning against the wall, playing with his cane in a seemingly carefree manner. His eyes were locked on Robert's head, though Robert had turned towards Emily.

"In the state of mind I was in—" Robert's eyes searched for an ally. Christine looked at his face, and felt she had to smile at him.

"We should be thankful, then, you did not have any _murderous _intentions towards Erik," Alex continued, a dangerous tone lingering in his voice.

Christine's stare sought Erik in a desperate plea for help. She was used to how Alex's behavior changed depending on who sat opposite him. He adjusted to situations like a chameleon, finding and exploring common ground rather than barricading himself behind differences. His hostile tone towards Robert was strange after his previous easy banter about the Welshman's job. Robert, who must have felt the change of mood, flashed an embarrassed smile.

"I am not such an idiot!" he offered.

"You mean you are usually less idiotic than that?" Alexander's remark felt like a cannonball exploding into the library.

"Alex!" Erik's voice sounded gravely cold.

"So, let me get that straight," Alex continued in the same casual tone as if Erik had never spoken. "If Emily had indeed found happiness with M. Rochelle, you would have come here to ask the reason why, to destroy that happiness. Had you considered what your course of action might have been in the case that she needed your help? Let's make that _wild _hypothesis…" His voice was calm, laced with a clearly snobbish tone.

"Alex!" Erik's booming voice covered Emily's gasp. "I appreciate what you have done so far, but keep your opinion to yourself."

"Perhaps you are under the mistaken notion that I am your steward, Erik, to dismiss me, or shut me up like this. You couldn't be further from the truth, my friend."

"You are not my steward, but surely not a friend, not even a polite guest, when you insult_ my _guests like this."

"When you needed my help, I was your friend." Alex's voice was low.

"For a man who appreciates manners as you claim you do, you are creating a scene. Perhaps you should leave."

"You are sending me away because I had the honesty, the courage to say what you yourself must have thought? You call him your guest—"

"Enough, Alex! Enough! He is Emily's husband!"

A deep crimson spread over Alex's cheeks. His veins stood out in his neck as if he were trying to restrain himself. He looked furious. Christine was afraid he would reveal the truth about the false marriage. She could still hear Mr. Hamilton's steps coming back and forth to the kitchen. This was the hour Mrs. Oliveer left for the village. If she heard any of this, nothing would save them from her gossip-loving mouth.

"You are in no position to alienate your friends, Erik!"

"I am in a position to do whatever I feel like. Bloody hell, Alex! You have never known when to stop!" Erik yelled, standing up. He walked to the window, seemingly looking outside over the lake, and clasped his hands behind his back. His shoulders were rigid.

"As you wish…I see you have made your choice. I will not darken your doorstep again!"

"Alex, don't be melodramatic—"

"When you summoned me, I ran like a fool."

"If you don't want to be a fool, stop behaving like one!" Erik turned, staring at the tall man. He looked angry yet sad.

"You insult me because of a man you met only this morning!" Alex looked genuinely hurt.

"Because _you _are insulting him! And Emily! And me!" Erik tried to explain one more time, but his voice was cold.

"If you believe _that_, you are more of an idiot than he is. You deserve everything you get! I hope you find the courage to share _your predicament _with the ladies. You owe them at least that! To know what they are dealing with!"

Christine felt her heart sink.

"Alex, it doesn't have to end like this…" Emily's faint voice seemed to come from another world after the men's argument.

"I'm afraid it has…" Alex replied bitterly. "It has, for I'm not taking back a single word of what I said…I believed every last one of them." He looked at Emily as if wanting to say something more, but changed his mind and turned again to face Erik.

"You have become soft, weak… you are making mistakes. I hope they won't end up being unforgivable! If you need help, don't bother to call for me. I meant to leave England, anyway. Ladies, it's been a pleasure meeting you," Alex said in his usual, polite tone that felt so out of place after the storm that had lasted no more than a few minutes.

He opened the door and sprang out of the library, colliding with Mr. Hamilton and sending the parcels the man was carrying into the air. Christine was certain he was relieved he hadn't joined them for tea this time.

II II II

Erik was propped against the headboard of his bed with a book in his hands. Robert had left just after Alex, and Christine was still shaking, hours after Erik had revealed the true story behind his four-day absence to her and Emily. She still felt he had provided a censored version of his captivity, as she had sensed he had been hiding something the day before. She felt restless. Pouring some malt whiskey into a glass, she drank a mouthful, feeling the liquid burn her throat like pure fire. She handed Erik the crystal glass. He took it from her hands, his intense stare never leaving her eyes. It was a strange stare, burning her more than any liquor ever could.

"How is James?" His voice was soft, that deep whisper that felt like a warm blanket around her. She had missed him so much.

"He's asleep now. Whenever his mother comes to see him, he is anxious afterwards."

"I shouldn't allow that woman to set foot in this house again."

"She is his mother, Erik. He loves her."

"I can't see the reason why."

"Love doesn't need reasons. It just happens." He frowned at her words, and Christine smiled at him and his stubbornness.

"What are you reading?" She sat on the edge of the bed beside him.

"Poetry. Baudelaire."

"Will you read for me?" Christine asked.

"You won't like him."

"You know I like hearing your voice." She took another, smaller sip from his glass.

"_I am the wound and the dagger!  
I am the blow and the cheek!  
I am the members and the wheel,  
Victim and executioner.  
I am the vampire of my own heart  
-One of those utter derelicts  
Condemned to eternal laughter,  
But who can no longer smile!"_

Christine stood up and walked to the window. The hair at her nape had risen while listening to his gloomy voice. It wasn't what she had expected to hear. His low, cynical laughter confirmed he knew that.

"Mrs. Oliveer calls me a serpent because of my cold skin. I wonder if she knows about vampires," he commented mockingly.

"You are in that mood again—"

"What mood?" he asked guardedly.

"When you talk like this, you scare me."

"You are scared of me, still…" Before she even blinked, he was beside her. His eyes examined her face emotionlessly. "You've just admitted it! You are still afraid of me."

"Not of you! Of your mood! Your sadness, my poor Erik. Your sorrow scares me because it hurts you." She raised her hand to cup his cheek, but he took a step back, his stare fierce and intense.

"You pity me, then. _Poor _Erik? How noble of you! You bear with me because you feel sorry for me."

"I can't talk to you when you are like this. It's useless." She turned her back on him to leave. There was so much to talk about. It never seemed the right time. And everything was happening so quickly….

"You know you'll have to leave."

Her legs felt like heavy stones, and she suddenly realized she would need all her power to move. She didn't even have the strength to turn. Standing there, a step away from his bedroom door, with her back turned to him, she hardly recognized the broken whisper she heard as her own.

"What do you mean_, leave_?"

"Leave the Red Door Cottage, what else?" His voice was totally unaffected, cold and neutral.

"You're saying this because I told you you scare me? You know it isn't true!"

"There is no need of a genius to understand it is not safe here. When we arrange a safe way, both you and Emily will have to leave. It is nothing personal."

"Nothing personal?" Her eyes widened, and she turned to have a clear look at the man who allowed that emotionless voice of his to say these absurdities. She felt her face grow hot with rage. All the anguish, the fears, the agony of the past week filled her. She was mad at him, she wanted to yell at him, but instead, she felt tears welling up in her eyes. "You are just annoyed because of what I told you just now, and you're punishing me. Like when you were my maestro—"

"You couldn't be more wrong!" He was before her again. His silent steps covered the distance between them, his voice, still hard, made her shiver. "If you want to know what annoys me the most…it is that thing you do with the glass."

"The glass?"

"That habit of yours…drinking a sip and then giving me the glass. It drives me mad!"  
She smiled at him. Any emotion in him now was welcome. "We are past the point when I acted as your maestro. Past the point I would be satisfied touching the rim your lips had touched before, Christine!" She leaned against the oak door, its cold surface under her dress sending shivers down her spine just as his voice did. "Don't make me hate myself more than I already do." She frowned, listening to his words. She focused on his face, troubled, tortured.

"You_ should _have been afraid of me!" There was an edge of agony lacing his voice. He grabbed her by the shoulders as if to make her believe him. "I'm so sorry, Christine! You came here searching…who knows for what…but I cannot help you anymore! I was a poor excuse of a man for you. We both know it." She felt a knot in her stomach. She shook her head in denial, unable to talk.

"If someone had told me years ago that it would come to this…it would end like this…  
I have had thoughts…_vile_ thoughts that hadn't crossed my mind, not even on the day of your marriage—" So he had been there! She had been right, after all, feeling his eyes on her. Was it his sadness she had felt that day, or had the emotion been entirely hers? What was he saying now? What thoughts had anything to do with _them_?

"I appreciate what you have done for me, what you have tried to do…but that doesn't hide who I really am. A madman, a murderer, a bully, someone easily targeted by whoever wants to simply because I appear less than human."

"What madness is this? You will let them do this to you?"

"It's not about them. It's about us! If …contact with another human being makes me hate myself so much, there is something seriously wrong with me."

Contact! Only the torment on his face kept her from yelling at him.

"You have to do what is best for yourself," he urged her, more composed now.

"What is best for me? I don't understand you—" She took hold of his hands, squeezing them, trying to make him understand. "Perhaps you should rest for a while." Could Alex have been right? Could Erik have been making mistakes? She cupped his cheek, alarmed.

"Your hands are warm…and your face…are you feverish?"

He pressed his fingers to his temple as if in pain, furrowing his brow. "You can hardly call them warm. I'm just not as cold as usual. It's probably rose fever. I went to the rose garden today."

"I thought rose fever was only in spring—"

"When you have a greenhouse, all seasons are spring," he stated, annoyed, pinching the bridge of his nose. She avoided mentioning that she knew the state the greenhouse was in from when they had searched for him. Only a few roses had survived, and the broken glass wouldn't protect them from winter. He was right, though. He was just not as cold as she was used to his feeling.

"How could I have missed it?" Erik's stare was locked on a blind spot above her.

She watched him walking away from her. His eyes wandered around the room, at first looking at nothing in particular. Then he focused on the book of Baudelaire poetry. He started searching the pages fervently.

"Read today's ghost note to me," he ordered.

Picking it up from the desk, Christine started reading, confused.

"_Disease and Death –"_

"Disease and Death makes ashes  
Of all the fire that flamed for us.  
Of those wide eyes, so fervent and tender

—" Erik interrupted her, reading from the book.

"What is it?"

"A poem by Charles Baudelaire. Do you want to know the title?" He smiled cynically.  
"It is called '_A Phantom.'_I guess we don't have doubts about what they know anymore." He seemed relieved.

Erik pushed the book which served as a lever in the bookshelf, moving the panel, and walked into the room Christine knew too well. He stepped out, holding a small satchel and a few items of clothing, throwing them onto the bed.

Christine watched him pack the clothes into the satchel and then fill the remaining empty space with the ghost notes he had brought upstairs.

"What are you doing?" She tried to restrain the fear she felt from coloring her voice.

"I'll stay at the Twin House for a while. I need to think. There is no space, no peace here," he explained.

"What if they want to contact you?"

"They will know. It might be better…safer… to be away from you. I'll leave instructions for James regarding how to handle any more ghost letters. I do not want anyone to disturb me, Christine. I mean it! Unless it is a matter of life and death…I want to think!"

She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"I know there is more. I _felt _I was missing something. It isn't only the poem. I remember what it was. The man who talked to me had a French accent! I could swear now I have heard his voice before. At least once—"

"But how can you remember a voice you have heard only once?"

"Voices are like musical instruments. When I hear one, I can't forget it. I just have to put a face to that voice."

"But the poem? Doesn't that mean that someone knew that you have that book here?"

"Yes," he paused. "Someone who has been in the house—"

Christine gasped.

"How can you leave us, then?" That miserable sound was her voice?

"I cannot physically protect you, Christine. Not you, not Emily, not James." His face was pained. She couldn't keep the despair she felt away from her face.

"But—" She had no words.

"It took less than a week living with Alex to doubt me?" he asked bitterly.

"No, but how—?" She knew she made no sense.

"I can offer you a guess, not a certainty," he said, writing a note for James. "I guess we are safe as long as we don't give them any excuse. I did what they asked. I sent a letter to my accountant in Paris. It will take days until I have an answer from him. They know that, that's why they gave me time. If they do know about my past –and it is a good thing they do—they will hesitate to enrage me further. It is a fragile balance, and all we can do is wait." He put on his coat and threw the satchel over his shoulder. "They seem intelligent. They have no reason to take any risks."

"And you will leave now? In the middle of the night?"

"I have to. I have to use all the time I have—"

"What should I do?" Christine asked, frightened.

"Act as if nothing strange has happened. I'll be in touch."

Saying this, he opened the door and left the room hastily, as if someone were hunting him.

* * *

The first poem excerpt is from Baudelaire's poem "_Heautontimoroumenos."_  
_Heautontimoroumenos_ means "he who punishes himself."


	30. Twin House

Greetings to all!

I hope you had a better weekend than I did. Nothing dramatic but multiple cases of Murphy's Law or Sod's Law or whatever you call it. You know... if anything can go wrong -have no doubt!- it will!

So...my wish for this week? Good Luck!

Thank you for reading and reviewing!

Thank you, Desiree and TOWDNWTBN, for your amazing work no matter the circumstances. You are incredible!

* * *

**Chapter 30 - Twin House**

Christine knew she should probably wait until sunrise. Four, maybe five hours. No more. She had watched the clock ticking minute after minute. Yet the sound of her boots walking on the grounds was the only hopeful sound for the time being.

"_I want to think!" _Neither Erik's words nor his grave tone, which she had kept hearing in her mind for the last twenty-four hours, were enough to stop her from looking for him in the state she was in.

"_Act as if nothing strange has happened._" He was mocking her, no doubt! Punishing her for who knows what! Her hurried steps turned into strides as her anger flared.  
Something had happened! Erik had returned home after four days of being held captive and hadn't said a word to her until Alex had told him to. The cool breeze did nothing to soothe her burning cheeks. Something else had happened, too! Erik wanted to send her away! Again! For her safety, this time! She almost kicked a stone while walking blindly into the night.

He wouldn't be happy with her walking in the middle of the night, emerging from the debatable safety of the Red Door Cottage, but, at the moment, she couldn't care less.  
If he wanted to keep an eye on her, he should have stayed home! He should have known where his place was by now. She had obeyed _his _wishes for twenty-four hours, and that had done nothing for her sanity. If he thought she was still the naïve girl who could be ordered around, he couldn't have been more mistaken!

She opened the Twin House's kitchen door and let it close behind her with a thud. This wasn't a social visit. Lighting a lantern, she didn't waste a second look on the large room. She had seen the ground floor rooms of the cottage, had noticed the elegant luxury even Philippe de Chagny would have admired, but which meant nothing to her now.

"Erik!" she cried, her voice loud and clear.

Entering the living room, her gaze instantly fixed itself on a grid made of papers on the midnight blue patterned carpet. She approached hesitantly, only to recognize the ghost notes separated into three lines, spread with caution all over the floor like a gigantic puzzle.

"Erik!" she shouted again with all the force her lungs provided. Being an opera singer had its benefits.

Gathering the courage to climb the stairs to the upper floor and the east and west wings, Christine shouted his name once more, wondering what his reaction would be if it were not she approaching but the ones who had sent the notes instead. She had thought of the possibility of traps and other horrific devices. Erik would be prepared and ready for them, wouldn't he?

"You will destroy your voice." The whisper reached her, making her turn around, sounding as if he were standing behind her.  
"Such a fine instrument! What a waste!" His cold voice was louder now, and issued from a completely different angle of the room. She turned again, raising her lantern.

"Erik," she whispered, now knowing he could hear her.

"What are you doing here, Christine?" he drawled. If there was one moment since she had found him again that his voice was her Angel's voice, this was the one.

"Angel," she breathed his name.

"Are you here to play games?" He sounded irritated. So irritated that she could actually follow his voice now. He was standing on the middle of the stairway, a few feet above her, on the landing from which the stairway divided in two, bifurcating upwards to the east and the west wings. Behind him, the wall was covered by a large number of windows – small, square windows allowing the stars to shine gloriously into the room. His white mask reflected the light of her lantern like a half moon before her eyes.

"I am here to talk, Erik." She had to gather her thoughts to provide an answer.

"Perhaps I don't_ want_ to talk, _Christine_!" He said her name in a mocking tone, his voice dragging over the syllables. A half smile gave his face a sinister look.

She furrowed her brows, seeing the state he was in. He looked disheveled, as if he had dressed in a hurry. His half-buttoned shirt was hanging outside his trousers and the most shocking of all: he wasn't wearing his wig. Instead of the always perfectly combed black hair, Christine saw a head of short-cropped, deep brown hair. It was the style of convicts, almost shaved, nothing like what she remembered from back at the opera house. Maybe that was what made him look so sinister, that and his cynical smile. Had he been drinking? His deep voice dragged her out of her thoughts.

"Leave, Christine! We'll talk in the morning." He started ascending the stairs, and that was enough to shake any surprise away, awakening her previous rage.

"I am not the _mannequin _you made, Erik. You can't silence me or put me in the corner!" She raised her chin defiantly, knowing her mention of the mannequin would embarrass him. She watched him slowly turning to face her, his hands gripping the rail with such force that she could see his white knuckles even in the dim room. This was her moment.

"Tell me what you want! What you need! I remember! No feelings! I have learned my lesson. Only needs and instincts! Tell me what you need, and I will do _anything _to give it to you!" She was proud of her steady voice. She was proud she hid all her despair at feeling him slipping away ever since that horrible day James had been brought to the house, beaten and hurt. Jacob hadn't just beaten the boy, he had destroyed her fragile happiness. It was so unfair!

"At moments like this, I wonder whether the mannequin would have been a more suitable companion. _It _would have respected my needs. Its brainless _choices_might even have been more clever than yours!"

If he had slapped her, it surely wouldn't have hurt so much. Christine was certain of that. She gasped at his harsh words. How could she think she could outplay him at cruelty? Was he trying to drive her away? Were they back at the opera house? Was she so idiotic as to think they had all that behind them? Was this one of those mistakes one can never take back or amend?

"Please, Erik… if you like me even a little… you have to find it in your heart to accept that the choices I've made have formed me into the person I am now. Not the girl you remember, not the woman you wanted me to be, but who I really am as I stand before you, now." She wasn't ashamed of her pleading voice. If only she could get through to him….

"You denied me, Christine." She had expected a cold remark, but that pained whisper was hurting her even more. If he couldn't overcome this, what were their chances?

"No! I denied myself! I betrayed myself! Can't you see that denying you was denying myself, who I really was? I was young—"

"I don't mean three years ago! I mean now! Now! You've lied to me! You lectured about honesty, and when Raoul came, you kept it a secret. You came to my bed only wanting to punish him. Maybe I ought to thank you for your pity—" His voice broke.

Christine felt she couldn't breathe. All her secrets were out, all that she had tried to hide….

"Leave, now. I will be home tomorrow. We will talk then." He turned to leave but stumbled on the step and had to hold on to the railing to keep his balance. He chuckled at his near-tripping.

"Have you been drinking?" Only after hearing her voice did Christine realize she had actually uttered her thought.

Erik furrowed his brows as if trying to think where all this would lead. "What does it matter if I have? I wasn't drunk when I heard you saying you loved him!"

"Please, Erik. I can explain everything! It's a mistake…a misunderstanding—"

"You said you would never love another man as you love him! I was there! I just didn't have the stomach to stay and have tea with you!" He looked at her from the top of the stairs. "Even though there is _not _a lot to talk about, we will talk, but tomorrow." He turned his back to her and stepped decisively into the darkness of the west wing's corridor.

Christine climbed the stairs and ran to him, only in time to see the door to his room closing. It was locked.

"Erik, please…let me explain," she begged.

"I've always known that deep down, you are a stubborn woman." He was standing against the door. His voice reached her, soft but clear.

"Then you know I won't leave unless you hear me. Please, open the door—"

"I'm not in the mood for talking." He was still leaning against the door on the other side of the room.

"Then just listen to me…I didn't call for Raoul. I didn't ask him to come—"

"Don't talk to me about _him_. I don't want to hear about him or what I already know…"

She heard him slide down slowly all the way to the floor. She heard the sound of his head leaning against the door. He had shut her out. Would he ever believe her? Her fingers traced the wood at the level his close-cropped hair would be. She sat on the floor, her temple leaning against the door, waiting to hear his voice.

"If you _have _to talk, tell me why you came to England, why you have been so distant the past few days…" His words were spoken with effort. Still, it felt as if he had asked her to tell him a story about people they didn't know. She shuddered at hearing him so remote.

"I wasn't distant! I was afraid! How can I explain it to you?" She ran her fingers through her hair in despair. "Think of your deepest fear…I know you probably have no fears—" His bitter chuckle interrupted her.

"Some people are afraid of spiders, of heights…remember Michelle, the seamstress? She was afraid of heights. She couldn't even climb on a ladder, and when once she had to, she was shaking for hours afterwards. Her face paler than ashes."  
She knew she was rambling. She gathered her courage.

"Imagine that you are afraid of spiders, and for more than two years, you've had to live among them, feel them crawl on your skin, sometimes invite them to emerge out of desperation to _feel _something, even if it's only fear. Fear makes you numb after a while. Blinds you, but he's a faithful companion. He never leaves you. I was always afraid of being alone, but when I thought you were dead, nothing, nothing could have prepared me for that feeling of utter loneliness." She heard his ragged breathing from the other side of the door. Not being able to see him felt terrible, but not being able to be seen felt liberating.

"You can't imagine what it felt like when I saw you alive in France. It was more than relief from my guilt. More than anger, even though that was what reigned at first. I felt whole again. When you were missing… these four days…I was in that state of fear all over again. I hoped you would come back…I lit all the fireplaces…as if you were lost and you needed to find your way home…like that night at the cottage in France when you came to me out of nowhere and just opened the door…not like a ghost, but flesh and blood… I know… silly women's thoughts—" She heard his heavy sigh, but he didn't say a word.

"You were so right about love… I married Raoul believing that I loved him, but it was not the kind of love a woman ought to have for her husband. He seemed to love me, but I couldn't love him back, I was cruel to him. I could pretend for him, but not for myself—"

"I _don't _want to hear about him!" His voice was harsh, just like his breathing.

"What do you want to hear? What is it you want to know? I will tell you everything…"

"I don't know… what to do to make you love_ me_…"

Her breath caught, hearing his strained whisper. Her nails dug into her palm as if that could control her rising heartbeat.

"Love you? I came to you, declaring my love, but you dismissed me like an ignorant child. And you had every right to treat me like that! I was so confused, so frightened that I didn't deserve any of this…when I think how I've treated you, Erik… I was jealous of Emily, I created a scene about her baby, I lied to you, yelled at you, but I could live with myself only knowing that whatever I did was because I loved you. And then I realized that, once more, you were right. My need for you was far stronger than my love. I felt as if before coming to you, before living with you here, I had lived with borrowed emotions, only skin-deep, nothing more. But I was afraid to reveal any of this to you—"

"Afraid?"

"Back at the opera house… I was afraid of you…Not of _you_! I was afraid of the effect you had on me. You totally consumed me. When I was around you, I was a different person. All the things I held dear, all my values, my beliefs meant nothing to me. They were empty rules written on paper. I didn't know who I was. When I was with Raoul, I recognized myself. I was the charming girl, my father's daughter, Raoul's childhood friend.

"When I was with you, I was frightening myself with these… unknown feelings I couldn't name. Some of them, I still can't. I thought I was turning into another person, driven by passion, with no reason, no care for what was expected of me, or what was honorable. Sometimes, I felt I was capable of _anything_ as long as you asked me. Not because of your hypnotic voice— that was only in the beginning— but because of you. I would have done anything to please you because whatever you said seemed right.  
I was becoming your shadow, but still so weak, unable to fully understand your genius.

"I knew that around you, I'd have no control over my life, no expectations of simple, ordinary things, like family. Everything would be an adventure beyond imagination, but I wasn't strong enough….  
I burned all my bridges to stop myself from following you, from exposing what I truly was inside, what I was craving. I was wrong, so wrong. Only beside you did I feel alive. I felt everything was possible. But how could I reveal such a weakness to someone like you? I've fought so hard for my freedom…  
For all I knew, you could have had me packing, starting voice lessons or singing at an opera house, and I wouldn't…I couldn't defy you. You would take control so completely…and I could do nothing about it."

"And now you have decided?"

"It was never a matter of decision, Erik. I had known I wanted you, no matter what, since the first day I set foot at the Red Door Cottage… I loved you, but I didn't know if I still had your love, and then I just wanted time to show you who _I_ am, what _I _want. I wanted you to hear _my _voice. That is why love is such a poor word to describe what we have, and now I am not afraid of it, I even love this strength of yours… although you are so strong for me, so solid and determined at times, that I often feel my willpower enslaved to you—"

"Enslaved? You are enslaved to me?" His deep laughter reached her through the door, bitter and cynical. "If there is one person enslaved in this relationship, it is I, with my foolish unwillingness to let you go. I have no power over you. I've let you humiliate me, and I've humiliated myself with every word I've said these past few weeks. I was too weak to accept the truth, so willing to accept whatever crumbs you had for me. I am the strong one? And you _love _that strength? As always, your timing is impeccable, Christine," he said, mocking her. His breathing, once more, sounded irregular. She thought she heard a chuckle, but she couldn't be sure.

"Erik, please let me in," she whispered against the keyhole.

"Leave me—" His broken voice had nothing of the commanding tone he had used before. "Leave me alone for a while…I'll come home tomorrow. I promise."

"Let me see you, just a look," she pleaded.

"I don't want you to see me…not like this."

Christine stood and turned the knob again.

"Please, Erik. Just unlock the door. You know I won't leave! Just open the door…"  
She heard the key turning, but his body against the door prevented any movement when she tried again. "I am not leaving, not this time…not again. Let me in!"

Hearing the sound of him moving behind the door, she tried once more. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, illuminated only by her lantern. The fire in the hearth was nothing but ashes. He was sitting on the floor beside the door, his long legs pulled up against his chest; only the mask visible to her, as the left side of his face remained hidden, pressed to the cold surface of the wall. She kneeled before him, staring at the constant, sculpted frown of the white leather. The heel of his hand was covering his left eye. He wasn't looking at her. His eyes were firmly shut, his other hand resting on the floor in a resigned gesture. She wanted nothing more than place her hand in his open palm, but she needed him to look at her first. Placing her hand on his knee, she forced him to look at her through the hole of his mask.

"No need to_ make _me love you. I don't know if I could love you more than I do now."

The slight twitch of his lips was his only reaction. She gently placed her hand in his, noticing the beads of sweat glistening on his neck. Christine gasped in surprise as she put her hand on his neck. He wasn't drunk. He was ill.

"What is wrong?" She removed his hand from his face, her movements no longer gentle. "Look at me!" she ordered, surprised by the harshness of her voice. She grabbed his arms, feeling his usually cold skin burning her under his damp shirt.  
"Erik, talk to me! Shall I call for Dr. McKinnan?"

"No, no need for doctors. Don't worry, Christine." His golden eyes were reddened from fever. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, and the same old fear lurking underneath. He cupped her face with warm hands. She hated warm hands.

"So much for being strong…" His voice was raw and bitter. "No tears!" he ordered wearily, brushing at some which were escaping from her eyes. He leaned his head into the crook of her neck, resting his forehead on her shoulder. "Don't worry. This isn't going to kill me. Wound my dignity, maybe… go home and I'll be back in a day or two."

"What do you mean 'this'? What is it? Does this happen often?" She heard the hysteria lacing her voice. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

"Not often. I usually recognize the signs earlier. This time I totally missed them."  
He cupped her cheeks again, smiling to her reassuringly. "I_ can _handle this." Did he know how scared she was? She wanted to ask so many questions, but fear and fury blinded her.

"Handle this? How can you handle this? Refusing to see a doctor? Hiding in a room with no fire! Away from home! From me? How do you know it's not something dangerous…even fatal—" Her voice broke. How could he do this to her?

"I've told you. I'm not in danger! Unless the fever gets too high and my brain boils."  
He smiled at her. His poor attempt at dealing with the situation with some humor was hardly appreciated.

"But the fever is high!" she murmured miserably.

"It's broken now." She noticed the fine sheen of perspiration on his chest, and fidgeted with his damp shirt. Could he be right?

"You knew this when you left," she accused him. "You said nothing…how could you be so foolish?"

"From genius to idiot in less than an hour! Life isn't easy on me lately." His remark helped her calm down. There was no point in yelling at him.

"I'm not saying you are a fool… your decisions, though, were very foolish!"

"Great difference there!" He chuckled, glancing at his bed.

"Let me help you…" She wrapped his arm around her neck to help him stand. He grasped the doorknob for support, not wanting to put his full weight on her. Putting an arm around his waist, Christine encouraged him to lean against her. He didn't try to pull away, and that alarmed her the most, bringing fresh tears to her eyes which she managed to conceal by the time they reached the bed. She helped him remove his shirt and boots.

"Do you want me to draw you a bath?"

"I just want to sleep for a while." He gave her a guilty half smile.

She choked back a sob. A weakened Erik was beyond her means of comprehension.

"Why didn't you stay? Why didn't you want me to care for you?" She covered him with a blanket and stroked his shoulder, amazed by how strange his warm skin felt.

With his eyes closed, he sighed. "I didn't want anyone see me like this."

Her throat tightened at his sad voice. Christine lowered her lips, letting herself taste him one more time. He opened his eyes, his stare on her intense. He grabbed her wrist.

"You can let no one know about this. If they knew I'm so weak—"

She placed her fingers on his mouth to silence him.

"I will stay with you."

"No! Everything must look as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened!"

"Nothing out of the ordinary has happened! I have taken a lover, and I am spending some days alone with him. What is more normal than that?"

"Christine, leave! You are causing me a headache!" He closed his eyes, pressing the bridge of his nose with his thumb. Such a usual habit of his lately. Why hadn't she noticed before? Was it one of the symptoms he had missed? She felt so helpless.

"If you don't want to leave right away," he said, looking at the drawn curtains with a frown as if he had only now realized she had come in the middle of the night, "bring me a glass of water, or you could make some tea with the leaves in that box."

She followed his eyes, which indicated a tin box lying on a desk at the far end of the room. "But I need you to promise me that you'll leave, Christine. Please…"

Brushing a light kiss over his stubble and smiling at the tickling sensation, she ran to the kitchen. While she guessed he was letting her do this to keep her occupied for a while, she welcomed any chance to actually do something for him.

Her mood quickly deteriorated after the first look at the kitchen. There was not even a loaf of bread there! She doubted he had eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours.  
Her rekindled fury at him and at his reckless, stubborn behavior didn't last long. Entering his room with the steaming cup in her hands, she saw he had rolled onto his stomach and fallen asleep, his mask buried in the pillow. Her eyes locked on the man lying in bed, _her _man.


	31. Countess de Chagny

Greetings to all!

One more Monday, one more week and I think I have to apologize for this slightly longer than usual chapter.

Other than that I have no apologies, just "thank you" to share: Firstly to TOWDNWTBN and Desiree for their hard work and then to all of you for reading and reviewing!

I hope life treats you well!

* * *

**Chapter 31- Countess de Chagny**

Christine stirred but didn't open her eyes. Her skin burned. She had probably fallen asleep in the armchair near the fireplace, but this state between sleep and awakening was too sweet to let go. She rolled onto her side to avoid the heat and smiled, remembering the previous night.

It had been the first time she had had the chance of watching Erik sleep. During all the nights they had spent together, he had either left without a word or watched her until sleep claimed her, spent in his arms. Only last night had the truth crossed her mind with striking clarity. He had never wanted to hurt her. It was his own self-consciousness that dictated him to leave her after their lovemaking or to wear his shirt or stiffen every time her hands went too close to his mask. On the upper side of his masked forehead, the part of his skull without hair had caught her eye. She had longed to touch that scarred part. She had longed to see his face again. Longed for it and dreaded it at the same time. Would it be smooth like the rest of his skin, or rough and uneven? Would she still be repulsed by it? Now that she had seen so many other parts of this man, now that she loved him, would it still be so important?

Avoiding questions she didn't know the answers to, she had gently stroked his muscled forearm, thinking about the way living outdoors and Emily's care and cooking had performed a small miracle on his thin frame. Not letting her jealousy for Emily get the best of her, Christine had let her hand explore the warm muscles of his scarred back. She could for once let her tears run freely—not afraid he would misinterpret her sadness, her anger, as pity—thinking how on earth a child could have endured so much, how a spirit could have survived such cruelty. She had let her lips wander the scars crisscrossing his back before holding him tightly to her body. She had fallen asleep beside him with the steady pulse of his heart beating under her hand.

Christine abruptly opened her eyes and turned again to the source of heat beside her.  
She hadn't slept on the armchair the night before. She wasn't being burned by the fire. It was Erik's skin that burned her. His fever had risen again.

II II II

Christine didn't know how many candles had burned out. She didn't count the passing hours by the hands of the clock. She didn't notice the sun rise or set again, nor the raindrops sliding down the windowpanes. She didn't count how many cool cloths were heated by his burning flesh or how many times she held him tightly with all her strength, spreading her arms and legs like a vine around him to stop the tremors passing through him.

During her first panic-filled moments, she had tried to wake him, to talk to him, to ask him what to do. Erik had always been her source of strength. Tears filled her eyes at his poor attempts to send her away, to reassure her. It was only after he had been lost in fever's realm, unable to answer any of her questions – how did he know it would pass? How long would it take? —that Christine had realized she was alone in this. But this loneliness, for the first time, didn't fill her with fear. She was the only one who could help Erik, and that evoked strength in her she never knew existed. Tears and fears had no place there. Even thoughts had no place there.

Only after the tremors had subsided and the first hopeful signs became more of a certainty did Christine let herself register it was near dawn once more. Placing a cool hand on his still-warm forehead, she wiped his neck and shoulders with a damp cloth. She didn't know how many times she had changed the soaked sheets, watching his perspiring body fight the fever. Tired, she wrapped her arm around his chest, buried her face in his neck, and covered both of them with a soft blanket.

It was noon when she heard his hoarse voice again.

"You are here."

"I am here, my love." She kissed his shoulder with closed eyes, relieved by his lowered temperature. She felt his hand as it checked his mask, but didn't let the gesture sadden her. She was so relieved that not even his tired, gloomy face could spoil that. She stretched, repositioned herself in his arms, and smiled broadly against his throat.

"You should have left." His tight grip on her waist contrasted with his determined tone.

"I had no better place to go." She knew she had to get up but couldn't find the heart to leave his embrace.

"That doesn't say a lot about your social life." His soft chuckle tickled her ears.

"But my love life, on the other hand…" Her voice trailed off as she moved to get out of bed. She smiled, feeling him stiffen at her words. The sooner he realized they were a couple in every sense of the word, the better for everyone.

"Promise me that you'll leave now. You have to check how Emily is." Hearing his voice again was causing a constant smile on her face.

"I promise I will leave in a while. I'll draw you a bath first."

"I can manage." He moved to the side of the bed and lifted the covers, only to cover himself again. "I'm not dressed!"

"It was a necessary course of action," Christine muttered under her breath. Then, thinking again of her previous decision, she raised her chin and looked him in the eyes.

"You are my man. I claim your body as my own."

Despite his previous paleness, a deep red color appeared on Erik's face, but he didn't utter a word. Christine's face had also grown hot, but she couldn't conceal her victorious smile anymore. Considering his silence to be agreement, she left the room to prepare the bath.

II II II

"And now you will leave." His familiar commanding tone, a clear sign he was getting better, was music to her ears. She had helped him back to bed after allowing him the privacy of a hot bath. Her concerns about his feeling weak or dizzy were hardly unfounded, no matter how he had tried to cover the signs. She counted out eighteen drops of the blue-colored medicine she remembered from Minnette's case, and handed him the cup of tea. Drinking it in two gulps, he left the cup on the bedside table, looking at her expectantly.

"Now I am leaving. After all, I promised!" Her teasing tone didn't escape Erik, who raised a brow at her smiling face. "Will you miss me?" she whispered in his ear, lowering her head to brush a light kiss on his cheek.

"No!"

Christine fixed his covers as if he were a ten-year-old and pursed her lips in disapproval.

"Shame on you! After all I did for you!" Surprisingly enough, her comment had an effect on him.

"I will be sleeping," he offered as an excuse. "I will come home tomorrow."

Christine could see his eyelids growing heavy. She brought his hand to her cheek, forcing him to cup it. She placed a kiss on his warm palm.  
"I love your cold hands," she muttered, doubting he could hear her, and left the Twin House.

II II II

Christine could mark that day as the day she was prouder of herself than at any other time in her life. And for a variety of reasons! She felt bold and daring!

She had made Erik blush at least four times, she had been true to her promise to leave, and now she was walking _back_ to the Twin House, as that promise hadn't included the stipulation that she couldn't come back. Or even _when _she could come back! She had prepared a basket filled with every kind of delicious food she could manage to find, and had deliberately talked loudly enough for everyone in the house to hear she was going to the Twin House to spend the night with Erik. Perhaps Mrs. Oliveer's presence might have been preferable for her goal, but Mr. Hamilton's bringing Mrs. Campbell and Mary to the Red Door Cottage had served the purpose sufficiently. Christine doubted anyone from the village would ever wonder again who the woman in Erik Rochelle's life was. Furthermore, she had brought with her the only thing she could count on to send away the last clouds over her relationship with Erik...

II II II

"The very point of taking the medicine was to fall asleep, Christine!" Erik complained in a tired voice. Little did he know she had been trying to wake him up for the last half hour as the memory of the danger of an overdose brought back all her fears.

"You had said more than ten drops could be lethal," she whispered miserably.

"For Minnette! I'm heavier than she is!" he muttered, rolling onto his other side.

"I brought you food…you have to eat!"

Erik growled against the pillow.

"I have a new ghost letter for you."

She had his full attention now.  
"What does it say? Read it to me!"

Christine placed the tray on his lap and brought the note from the kitchen.

"I can't understand it." She frowned at the paper, seeing with satisfaction that Erik was eating his first meal in days.

"Another example of a poetic vein?"

"There are just two numbers— nothing else."

"Give it to me." She handed him the note and watched him look at the numbers for a while, as if contemplating whether to explain things to her or not. She sat on the bed beside him, claiming her role in his life. Erik put the tray aside and asked her for a new dose of the blue medicine.

"You know there is nothing that could drive me away from you," Christine said, placing the new cup of tea in his hands. She hated the doubt in his eyes. She hated that dark cloud over their heads. As if they didn't have enough….

"The second number is the money I have," he started. "What I can gather with short notice. The estates are not included, as _they _would never wait for any sale."

Christine looked from his face to the paper again. It was an awfully large amount of money. She had never expected him to be so rich.

"The first number is what they want," he concluded. "How do you feel about poverty, Christine?"

II II II

Christine rested her head on Erik's chest, hearing his heart beat the hours in her world.  
For once, she was thankful for the blue liquid that brought him sleep. She doubted he would have been able to sleep on his own after reading the ghost note. Her first thought was that money, _his money_, didn't matter to her, but then she realized she always had depended on him— even when she had thought she was living a simple, plain life with Minnette's allowance. The allowance _he_had been sending.

Still, Christine couldn't focus on financial problems or what they would mean for Jamie and Emily. All she could think about was the man whose deep breath caressed her ear.  
She propped herself up on her elbow and rested her head on her hand, watching him, cupping his unblemished cheek with a boldness she wouldn't have had if it weren't for the medicine's effect. She didn't dare touch his mask. Since she had come to him, he had managed to put on so many masks, to raise so many walls around himself, that removing that last physical one would only make the other ones stronger, tighter around him.

On the other hand, wasn't he _her man_? Hadn't she claimed him, loved him, cared for him? Could she risk a hesitant stare when the time came—and it would surely come, maybe even sooner than later—which could destroy what they had? Didn't she know by now how proud he was? Could she trust herself, her weak nature not to ruin everything? She knew she had to be strong and determined, and most of all, show him she didn't care. Could she trust herself enough not to hurt him? How could a glance at him now hurt when maybe it was all that was needed to put that last worry aside?

Christine propped herself against the headboard, her heart beating hard against her ribs. Her hands reached for the double knot Erik used to secure his mask in place. She shifted herself and gently moved his head from its pillow to her lap. His shorn hair felt strange against the pads of her fingers.

Pulling the mask from his face felt like tearing off part of his skin. Christine gasped for air, feeling her breath catch in her throat. Tears clouded her vision at once. She kept her eyes locked on his face until she could see clearly again, tracing all the features she recognized, combining them with the unfamiliar ones, joining them into a single and undivided picture. Christine didn't know how long she stayed there, staring at the misshapen mixture of colors and uneven flesh before her eyes. Since his eyes were closed, it wasn't the love in them, his anger or his sarcasm that drove her to him. It was the sound of his breathing, steady and peaceful, the most melodious sound on earth, that helped her identify the image of the tortured man before her as the man she loved.

II II II

Erik standing, looking out the window over the gray-green waters of the lake, his hands clasped behind his back, his mask reflecting in the windowpane, was a sight that nearly brought tears to Christine's eyes. He looked so strong, so healthy with his shirtsleeves rolled up in that familiar manner of his – she was sure his cufflinks were lying around somewhere in the room.

Leaving the breakfast tray on the bed, she approached him, dread filling her at his rigid posture. A deep blush crept up her face. She hid any signs of guilt under her eyelashes, and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, resting her cheek on the cool fabric of his waistcoat. She felt him stiffen again.

"Are we leaving today?" she asked, knowing the answer. No matter the circumstances, there were moments during these days spent at the Twin House when she felt as if they were the last two people in the world. "Do we have time for breakfast?"

"We have time…" His voice was hard. "Before we leave," he said, turning to face her, "I want to know what happened with Raoul."

Christine sighed heavily as a wide smile formed on her face. Her guilty conscience had played tricks on her. She looked at his gloomy face and stood on her toes for a light brush on his lips. How many days had it been since she had felt his lips? How many nights? She frowned, realizing the truth. Since the night of Raoul's visit. Feeling mad at herself for letting that happen, she reached for a book under the cushion of the armchair.

"Read this," she told him, handing him the book. "I have all the documents needed, but there are terms—" Her voice was trembling now. He looked at the book, puzzled. "No mocking! No reading more than the pages marked between the bookmarks! I mean it, Erik!" She felt her cheeks burning. To his credit, he looked at her gravely. She felt as if she were baring her soul to him. After last night, she also felt she owed it to him. She had to force herself to take a deep breath. "And if everything goes well…" she tried to put some teasing into her voice, "you will show me what this key is for." She let the back of her hand caress the small key hanging from his neck.

Erik frowned and opened the book to the page the first leather bookmark indicated. Even if he hadn't already guessed what it was, the handwritten text left little to doubt. "It is your diary," he whispered softly.

II II II

_I can't stop myself from trembling. I don't know why I'm writing this. I should probably destroy these pages... I just want to exile all thoughts from my mind, never to think of this morning ever again, and I know of no other way. I wish I could talk to someone, but there is too much Emily doesn't know, and I wouldn't feel comfortable sharing any of this with her._

_Only my Angel would understand…but Erik would be hurt…_

_I have to calm myself. I know I do. When Erik comes from the Twin House…just a look will be enough for him to guess the truth. Oh, what I would give to have his arms around me now, comforting, reassuring…I know I don't deserve him. I am a mean woman, but life has made me that way._

_Only if I compose myself will I be able to pull this through. I'm taking deep breaths, but I still feel my mind is clouded. I was mean to him, I know, but all these years' hostility…_  
_I couldn't hold it in. I know I hurt him. Once I thought I loved this man, and now I've been cruel to him. What kind of person does this make me?_

_I've always dreaded meeting Raoul again. I knew he wouldn't understand…there was no point in inflicting more pain over something that would never change. I am only grateful Erik wasn't in the house. Emily's long walks helped me, too. She has her own problems to think of, and she's never enjoyed my using her kitchen._

_I can't believe I was so content this very morning! It was beyond contentment. I was happy! If it hadn't been for Jacob, I would say it was pure bliss. I have never felt so close to Erik, never felt myself so needed and loved, and I thought nothing would be able to sadden me anymore. Not his hasty departure from my room in the middle of the night, not even his apprehension of acknowledging his feelings for what they are. It is a matter of time. I know it now. Day by day, night by night, we can only grow closer to each other, and nothing will be able to separate us. I will be damned if I let Raoul and his family ruin what I have built for myself here._

_Why is it when I feel so strong and decisive about something, life makes it a goal to ruin that certainty for me? Am I to be humbled? For what? For thinking happiness was finally a possibility for me?_

_I'm still wearing my stained apron. It seems I'll never manage to bake that pie for Erik. I know cherries are not in season, but that is hardly the problem. I can't even bake a stupid pie. What kind of wife would I be for him? A terrible one, no doubt. Surely not as horrible as I've been for Raoul, but awful nevertheless. Useless…_

_To think I was only mildly annoyed at hearing the bell ring! I thought Mr. Hamilton had brought some delivery, and would disturb me from my cooking. Yet that white horse could have belonged to only one man! Raoul was so proud of it! No price, no matter how high, could have barred him from owning that glorious stallion. Was Raoul like those men who were willing to pay a fortune for Alex's chessboard? He probably was…_

_I don't think I took in a deep breath from the moment I saw him approaching through the library windows. I waited for him by the door, trying to appear composed and distant. My refusal to offer him tea and my avoidance of any small talk about Paris or his family were enough to show him he was unwanted. His face, initially suffused with emotion, turned pale and hard. It was a strange expression, for Raoul's face. Unfamiliar. He looks more mature now, but the boyish features are still there, along with that bright, blond hair of his. Raoul is a handsome man, and he knows it._

_Strangely, the image that came to mind was Alexander's long, wild black hair._  
_Emily should think twice before accusing him of being a fop. I remember locking my eyes on my shoes to banish the image from my mind. I almost smiled at the thought that Erik's influence ran far deeper than I had thought possible, but I kept my serious countenance. What horrible creature have I become? This was the man who had been my husband! How could I see him, not as a former wife should, not even through the eyes of his childhood friend, but as Erik's shameless mistress? I could only blame the suddenness of his visit for my behavior._

_"How are you?" he asked, as though to a long lost relative, looking at the bookshelves and the room that screamed Erik's presence. It was odd to hear his voice again. Brought back memories of a past I never even had thought possible in the first place._

_"I am fine, thank you," I replied, my only thought being to send him away before Erik arrived. Erik's struggling so hard to do the right thing regarding Jacob, and knowing about Raoul's visit would only throw him over the edge. I wasn't going to let that happen. I wouldn't give Raoul the satisfaction of ruining this for me. I watched him serve himself a glass of whisky and sip a mouthful, as if thirsty, then drink some more._

_"I see your lover has decided to pretend to be a member of the human race, now," he stated, his stare traveling around the room. "It is an improvement on being an Opera Ghost. Has he any success?"_

_I know he was trying to provoke me. I probably knew it even then, but his tone reminded me of Philippe's sarcasm, and I couldn't keep the words from escaping my mouth._

_"Have you succeeded in becoming a man?" I am ashamed of myself now. I thought such petty comments were beneath me. At that moment, I was just angry._

_His face contorted with rage. He threw his glass at the hearth in anger. I unconsciously took some steps backward, towards Erik's desk, made more curious by the sight than afraid. I watched him play with his cufflinks afterwards, embarrassment all over his face. It was as if he saw himself and how strange he looked, and regretted his outburst._

_Shamelessly, Erik filled my thoughts again. He is glorious even in his rage. Graceful and powerful. His wrath is a force of nature. Poor Raoul! He looked like a child wearing his father's clothes; or, in his case, his brother's._

_My anger vanished. I finally saw the blond boy, my childhood companion, who had hidden a jar of marmalade under his jacket; we had eaten marmalade till our stomachs hurt and we were completely sick. Why had I spoiled that? Why had I misled him into thinking he could save me? Why had I misled him into thinking I needed a savior? Would all my faults come back to haunt me as he did?_

_"How could you do this to us?"_

_Was the guilt so evident on my face that he could read my thoughts?_

_"I consider it a mutual effort. You, your brother, your family, and I were in this together!" I could match Philippe's sarcasm any time. I have a great teacher!_

_"Philippe is dead," he stated. "He had a stroke a month after you left. He died eight months later."_

_I gasped. Yet I felt no sympathy for Philippe. Only pity for what he had endured for eight months. It was an awful ending for a man as proud as he was._

_"You swore before God!" he accused me. "What happened to 'until death do us part,' Christine?" The desperation in his voice hurt me more than the lost dream he described._  
_I had been the coward who left without a word other than a pathetic letter. I had left it to Philippe to explain…_

_"Death_ did_ us part! My son's death. How much more can a marriage endure?" I tried to send the image of my son's closed eyes away. If only I had seen the color of his eyes…  
I heard the guilt in my voice. I knew by now our marriage had had no hope of survival, even without Jean-Pierre's death on our shoulders. I was too much of a coward to admit it to him, to anyone but myself. There had been no love on one side, no trust on the other…I often thought of the miserable equation our marriage had been. I had trusted Raoul, but I hadn't loved him. He had loved me, but he hadn't trusted me._

_"But we were so happy at first…we were supposed to grow old together—"_

_"We were supposed to grow up first! We were nothing but foolish children playing at newlyweds. We let others rule our lives as if they were our parents. Philippe wasn't my father or my husband!" I took a deep breath to restrain my anger. "I realize it took a lot of strength to defy him. Marrying me was brave, Raoul, but I wasn't brave enough to live with both of you!" I couldn't believe his naivety in pursuing this._

_"I've told you! Philippe is dead! He can no longer interfere in our lives! I am the Comte de Chagny now! You are right! We were too young! Come with me, and nothing will be the same as before!"_

_I was shocked. Did he mean that? Did he still love me, or was he just trying to win me back? "Whatever you want, whatever you have dreamt of, will be yours. You can even sing if you want to…or we could go to New York! We could live there…you would be near Meg and Madame Giry again!" His enthusiasm made my heart sink. Guilt filled me again._

_"It is too late, now, Raoul."_

_"What will you do, then? Stay here, letting _him _use you again? Look at you, Christine! What has happened to you? Where is your pride? What have you become now? His cook? That stained apron, the black circles under your eyes…" I remembered my doomed pie waiting for me in the kitchen. I looked at the burns on my hands, and the memory of Erik's cold lips on them made me shiver. I felt my face grow hot, remembering what caused the black circles, and my sleepless nights. I might spend all my daylight hours worrying about Erik facing that dreadful man, but my nights are filled with pleasure. I averted my eyes in shame. There is no doubt. I am a fallen woman. Such thoughts…_

_His hard voice brought me back to reality. "I can hardly recognize you… will you allow yourself to be consumed by that man's darkness?"_

_"The darkness in me is more powerful than the light you showed me, Raoul." Some amount of generosity never hurt anyone._

_"Is that what you dreamed of? Let me treat you as you deserve to be treated!" His patronizing tone drove me out of my previous generous state._

_"You should have thought of that earlier, when you really had a chance. Oh, Raoul…"_  
_Who was I deceiving? We had never had a chance. I recalled my honeymoon filled with my maestro's stories, his voice in my mind. I must be the worst woman in the world. The most deceitful, the most self-centered…I didn't hear him approach. Even if I had, I wouldn't have expected him to dare to kiss me. I was stunned. It was worse than feeling nothing. I felt lips touching lips in an excruciatingly clinical manner, as if I weren't in my body. I remember smelling his breath and looking at his hair falling on his forehead. I examined the sensation, and it felt like a dinner at which a plate of unknown food is brought before us. We register the details, the smell, the form, the color with indifference, and gladly let it pass without registering it into memory. Only when I felt his tongue on my lips did I take a step back and feel Erik's desk against me. Erik! A shiver ran down my spine, and I trembled violently._

_"Do you tremble when he kisses you as you are trembling now for me, Christine?"_

_I could have felt pity for his misguided remark—Raoul had never been especially perceptive in that area—but all I felt was fear. Could there ever be a moment in time when Erik might kiss me and I'd feel nothing? Is it possible? Could love and desire diminish into nothing? Into worse than nothing? I had never sought intimacy with Raoul, but his kisses had never appalled me before. Never had made me feel so empty. I wish I had Erik's cold lips on me now just to send that awful fear away. To feel myself again._

_"Do you remember what you once told me? He was repulsive! Hideous! He frightened you! He has killed who knows how many people…"_

_Shame filled me at hearing him speak those words against the man I love. The words _I _had uttered once. Was I any better than Mrs. Oliveer, who had disgusted me the other day with her comments?_

_"Erik is not like that anymore…" I trembled as I thought of Jacob. I see Erik's inner battle every day, every time he stares at Jamie's slight, bruised body. I watch him try to rise above everything his instinct, his nature tells him to do. Would it matter if he killed Jacob? If someone guaranteed that he wouldn't get caught or risk being hurt by the brute, would it matter to me? Is my love beyond reason, beyond morality? I know the answer, and it is damning to my soul._

_"Look at you! You are shaking! Why do you do this to yourself?"_

_I remembered hearing the exact same words from Erik the other day._

_"Why do you do this to yourself?" His voice so smooth, like a caress over my cut finger, his eyes so warm on me. How can I explain it to him? If I only could make one wretched pie to make up for the pathetic ginger cookies…Emily is capable of the most exquisite recipes…_

_"Please come back to me, and I will forget everything! We will forget everything! We have our whole lives…we can be happy, really happy—"_

_"Stop it, Raoul!"_

He _would forget everything? How very thoughtful of him! _We _would forget everything? How on earth had I bound my life up with someone who knew me so little? I bit my lip to conceal all the sarcastic answers that came to mind._

_"Does he kiss you in the dark? Do you see his disgusting face contorted with lust when he beds you? Or do you conveniently 'forget' to light the candles?"_

_"Stop it! I can't listen to you anymore!" I was beyond anger! I wanted to hurt him. Oh, I was so mean! I knew what would hurt him the most, and I said it just to see his blue eyes flinch in pain. I feel the shame now, but it felt so good at the time. "What is it you fail to understand? I am his now! His mistress, his wife, his whore! I am the Phantom's whore! Are you satisfied? How does it feel to know that you were right after all? That everyone was right?"_

_I was playing with his mind, letting doubt and insecurity worm their way into what he thought possible, what he believed true. If he had really trusted me but had simply failed to defend me, this doubt would be my revenge. If he hadn't trusted me in the first place, what a bitter victory this would be for him!_

_"You want to humiliate me, then. To disgrace my family's name."_

_"The whole world does not revolve around you, Raoul!"_

_"Do you want to punish me, then? Haven't you punished me enough, Christine? Only seeing you here in his house…I was driving myself crazy looking for you…"_

_Now I felt pity for him. Obviously, he knew nothing. Philippe hadn't had the time to tell him. It was my duty to tell him and, as always, I was a coward. He helped me, though._

_"And now what? Will you ask for a divorce so you can marry your lover?"_

_"Would you give me a divorce, Raoul?" I held my breath. Perhaps I had underestimated him. Guilt filled me again._

_"No! I will never give you a divorce! Why make your life easier? Why help you, help_ him_, when you don't care about my pain?"_

_A smile formed on my face. At least, I would not have_ _the weight of _this _choice on my conscience. I had anticipated his reaction. I was right! I felt my shoulders free of a weight I didn't know I had carried. Looking at his beautiful manly face, I saw the spoiled child I once knew looking back at me. I loved that child. I knew he had a good, generous heart, but he was so spoiled when something was denied him._

_"Don't you know it by now? Haven't you guessed? I could never, ever ask you for a divorce, Raoul."_

_He looked at me, puzzled. My voice had all the tenderness I felt for the little boy I had bade farewell to more than a decade ago. He had been Jamie's age when we played under the sun, thinking our lives would always be so carefree, so warm. And here I am, finding a warm embrace in the arms of a man with a cold touch. I felt myself smiling again. I let the pads of my fingers trace his desk as I leaned against it, trying to feel him beside me, giving me part of his strength. I took his inkbottle in hand, thinking of his long, bony ink-stained fingers._

_"He has you under his spell again! What do you see in that monster?"_

_Now I see it was his bitterness that made him talk like that. I wish I had seen it then._

_"When I decided to leave…" I thought of the way he talked about Erik, with all the arrogance his good looks afforded him. "When I decided to leave you…" The cruelty in my voice satisfied me at that moment. "I went to the only man who could help me, at the time."_

"Him_!" he muttered through his teeth with disgust. In my anger, I felt a smile bloom on my face._

_"No, Raoul. I went to Philippe, your brother. I am surprised he didn't tell you. He was the one who provided all the papers." I paused a few seconds so the information would sink in._  
_"I am officially divorced from you. The late Comte de Chagny's signature verifies that, along with the signatures of your sisters' husbands as witnesses. Your signature, of course, too."_

_"But I never…this is a farce…" He was at a loss for words._

_"A simple forgery. Your brother always knew how to bend the rules to his interest._  
_I asked for nothing more than a few months to settle down somewhere. It was a wise bargain for the de Chagny name. He would have told you himself. I guess his illness forbade it."_

_His expression was a mixture of shock, surprise, and disbelief. I still didn't feel sorry for him._

_"Will you accuse your late brother of forgery? Will you be the cause of your sisters' families' disgrace only because they trusted him enough to sign blank documents? Is the new Comte de Chagny so bold, so daring?" I challenged him. I watched the color drain from his face. He sought support on a chair._

_"He told me nothing…" He looked pathetic._

_"I guess he kept all the documents, as I do. As the new Comte, you should be more thorough—"_

_"Shut up!"_

_I saw hatred in his eyes. It wasn't pointed at me. He felt helpless. I knew the feeling from the days of our marriage. I smiled at him, taking courage from the inkbottle in my hand. Nothing he would say could hurt me. Not in Erik's house._

_"In case you feel brave enough…or self-destructive enough to reveal everything…I have to let you know there is no point. I also have a birth certificate verifying I am Christine Giry, daughter of Minnette Giry, sister of Meg. Christine Giry has never been married. My…mother is willing to take an oath on that. Your brother was very helpful. The only way to take me from this house is to drag me by force, but I seriously doubt you will escape Erik."_

_"I guess he has thought of everything—"_

_"No, Raoul! _I _have thought of everything! I wanted to be free from this marriage in every way possible!"_

_He buried his face in his hands, his blond hair hiding his expression. I took a few steps towards him._

_"How did you find me here?"_

_"A letter let me know that the Countess de Chagny is hiding here, living with Erik Rochelle…" His voice trailed off. He looked at me and his pain shook me. He couldn't believe his brother had betrayed him. He expected it from me, but Philippe had always been flawless. I wondered how long it would take for him to realize the wisdom of this decision._

_"I don't care what story you tell about the Countess de Chagny…say you have divorced her…say she died. It is all the same to me…" I felt tired. Exhausted._

_He kneeled before me, his hand fidgeting with my dress. He bent his head in defeat._

_"I love you, Christine. You are my wife." Lies! So many lies he believed. I couldn't but feel sorry for him. Sorry for the part of me that had once believed these lies. I brushed a blond strand away from his forehead. He had come here, angered by his wife's betrayal, only to leave widowed, betrayed by the brother he had always admired._

_"Please, Raoul…please go! I don't want Erik to find you here," I begged._

_"Christine…" The pain in his voice brought tears to my eyes. It wasn't an easy thing to wake up in a reality you never thought possible._

_"I will never love another man the way I loved you…" I cupped his cheek. "I loved you the way a young girl is infatuated with the fairy-tale prince who has come to save her. You deserve a woman who will love you for who you are. Your flaws and your weaknesses…and your blond hair—" I gave him a bitter smile. I couldn't bear to see him so hurt. What was his fault other than being caught in the middle of something stronger than any of us? "With Erik…everything is so complicated…love and pain are often combined, but he knows my soul more than anyone would ever think possible—"_

_His face turned hard. He stood up, putting some distance between us, playing with his cufflinks again. When he spoke again, I saw a part of Philippe in the way he raised his chin. My childhood friend was buried behind that beautiful mask of ice blue eyes and handsome features that looked back at me emotionlessly._

_"You may have your way, Christine. You may have him as your lover, your husband, whatever you want to do with him…but you'd better not set foot in France again…ever again!" For the first time in my life I felt he was threatening me. "I won't let you two ridicule me. There is a limit to what a man can take, Christine…even for a woman like you."_


	32. The Diary

Greetings to all!

I hope Christine's reasoning didn't disappoint you…

As for Erik's reaction to this …that's what the new chapter is for! :-)

Thank you for giving this story a chance and for reviewing it. It always helps! ;-)

Desiree and TOWDNWTBN do an amazing work regardless of their full schedule. Thank you, girls!

I hope we'll all have an easy week. We need that for a change…

* * *

**Chapter 32 - The Diary**

Christine couldn't stand watching Erik read her diary. Seeing his fingers carefully turn the first page was more than she could endure, no matter how hard she tried to keep a brave face. His deep frown, his hand grabbing the armrest of the chair as all her meanness lay open in front of his eyes, in black and white, confessed by her own hand…. her diary, resting casually on his crossed legs, was like an open door to a wickedness she doubted he had ever expected from her.

"Christine, go away," he ordered when she started pacing the room. "I can't read with you acting like this. You distract me." His voice was softer now, bringing a blush to her face.

After spending the longest half hour of her life washing some dishes, the only remnant of a breakfast no one had cared for, and preparing some fresh tea, she found Erik still sitting in the armchair, looking absentmindedly outside the window, her diary on the secretaire beside him. He hadn't put his wig on yet, and some red streaks appeared in his brown short-cropped hair, the color enhanced by the early morning light. She felt a smile forming on her face. Wasn't that a sign he felt more comfortable around her than before?

Suddenly, she yearned to touch the nape of his neck. Knowing she had to suppress her impulse, she was stunned to think that the first word that came to mind on looking at him was "handsome." Not trusting herself, she took the teapot in both hands, the porcelain of the handle cold, the spout hot, burning her fingers.

Erik would become enraged if the word "handsome" were ever applied to him. He would think she mocked him. Had it only been last night when she couldn't have matched the horrible features of his face to the man she had learned to love? Was love one more lesson he had taught her? Had she been blind before, or did love blind her now? Her mind could comprehend his ugliness. Still, wasn't it that very same mind which now registered it as beauty? Or maybe what she longed for, what she needed, was defined as beautiful by her eyes?

Christine blew some steam away and boldly brought the cup to her lips, letting them linger a while longer than necessary on the rim before handing the teacup to him, looking in his eyes the whole time. She heard with satisfaction the sound the unsteady cup made as it fought for balance on the saucer. His stare on her was unwavering, but his hand was trembling. His golden eyes were watching her every move as they always were, as they should. She placed her hand on her yellow necklace. What was it about that man that took her breath away even when he didn't utter a word?  
She knew him now. It wasn't any air of mystery that made her knees weaken.

"Do you still mind?" she asked, innocently referring to the tea, trying to read in his eyes whether Raoul's ghost was out of their lives once and for all.

"No."

She shivered at his husky voice. She felt his warm hands on her hips as he pulled her down to sit on his lap. Christine slid her arms around his neck, careful not to make any contact with his mask.  
"So…it seems _you_ love_ me_," was all he said, looking at her for what seemed like an excruciatingly long time. None of the passionate reactions she had expected— or hoped for. Only his intense, examining stare on her. She wished she could press a finger to his forehead to ease the frown on his face.

She stroked his shoulder, hoping to evoke some reaction from him. Letting her fingers wander along the nape of his neck, she tested the smoothness of his thick hair, keeping some distance from the forbidden area. He stiffened under her touch.

"Erik—" she complained when he brought her wandering hand to his lips.

"Do you know…do you have the remotest idea how strange that feels…that you love me?" He tangled his fingers into her locks, leaning his forehead against hers. His voice was muffled, his breathing hoarse. "_My _Christine."

She suddenly had a feeling that this was a moment she would always remember, that she could never go back to her previous life, ever again, and whatever happened to her—to them—next, it would be defined by that undoubted notion. She was "_his _Christine." She took a deep breath, the gravity of this overwhelming.

"You can take it back, you know." He smiled at her, pulling back to look at her face. "That you love me…it is not an eternal pledge…" Once more, he had read her thoughts, her fears. His teasing tone couldn't fool her. The intensity in his eyes, the passion, were there, in full force, burning her, no matter how light the smile on his face.

"It is," she said. It felt that way. She didn't know how long it would last, but now it felt that way, and she ought to tell him. She ought to make him feel loved.

His lips were not gentle. They were cautious, but not gentle. There was nothing gentle in the demanding way they moved on her face. Passionate, possessive. She opened her eyes, startled by the sound of her own moans. His mask gleamed under the soft morning light. She recognized the arrogant smile on his face. He knew he could evoke a blush in her cheeks whenever he wanted. She buried her reddened face in the crook of his neck, trying to catch her breath.

"I can't describe to you how these past days felt," he whispered.

She shuddered at his dark tone. She had let Raoul hurt them.

"I am grateful _I _don't write a diary…the Devil would claim me just for putting such thoughts on paper. It would have made no difference, though…I burned in Hell anyway."  
His hand ran down her spine. He had tried to mellow his words earlier—_his Christine_—but his hands on her body spoke of passion and possession and longing. She had always known that, with Erik, it would run deeper than simply being his woman, his wife. She didn't know the nature of the bonds, but they were there. They were always there. Sometimes they felt like silk threads pulling her, at others like iron chains binding her to him, powerful and demanding.

"You know it will never be like this for us…" His voice trailed off.

"Like what?" she murmured against his neck.

"Like what you were afraid of…no feeling there…in the kiss—"

At the moment, that fear of hers seemed ludicrous. "How do you know?" she challenged him.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I will always be amazed you stayed. You will always be perfect."

She got abruptly out of his lap, all her previous fears back in full force.

"I am_ not _perfect!" She put some distance between them, furrowing her brows. Apparently, she wasn't the only one blinded by love.

He stood, too, putting his hands in his pockets in a carefree manner, a devilish smile all over his face. At each step he took to approach her, she took a step back until she felt the cold wall behind her. He was standing just a few inches away; without laying a finger on her, still she felt him all over her face, her body.

"You are right. You are not perfect." His voice teased her, caressing her ears. He leaned towards her, never touching her. "You are a dangerous woman." He smiled. "But I didn't need this," he indicated to the diary, "or your Machiavellian divorce to learn that."  
Was there any other man in the world who could turn "learn" into the most sensual word that ever existed?

"I have felt it on my skin…how dangerous you really are. And how – _deceivingly, of course_— perfect. You are not _really _perfect."

She knew he was mocking her, but had to fight to keep her heavy-lidded eyes on his face when all she needed was to let herself drown in that voice.

"You just look perfect…you sound perfect. You even smell perfect." He bent his head slightly. She shivered, waiting for a kiss that was never given. "And above all…you _taste _perfect."

She gasped for air. What was he doing? He had never done this before. Using his voice this way…on her….

"Tell me, Christine." She jumped, feeling the lightest brush of his mask on her cheek as he lowered his head to whisper in her ear. The cold leather felt so much like the touch of his cold hands she had missed, she craved at that moment. "That night…the night after Alexander's first visit…" She shivered as memories of their first night together flooded her mind. Was he playing with her? Why didn't he touch her?  
"Is it true you hadn't felt like that before?"

Christine actually heard herself growl. She was sure that deep sound had erupted from her throat, but Erik didn't seem in any way disturbed by it. He just tilted his head and furrowed his brow, looking at her as if he were indeed waiting for an answer. Her eyes widened in shock as she walked away from him.

"How could you do this to me? I hate you, Erik!" She looked at him, rage contorting her features. She couldn't believe he had read more of her diary than she had allowed him to, that he had betrayed her that way.

"You hate me? The man who '_introduced you to a world of pleasure'_?" Oh, he was shameless! She felt her face grow hot, burning with fury, as she looked at the man who still stood by the wall, oblivious to how cruel he was.

Christine walked to the secretaire and seized the offending diary. Why had she been so surprised? That man had no problem with eavesdropping on a conversation, reading a letter that didn't belong to him, or even faking death if it suited him! Why did this feel so painful? Tears stormed down her cheeks.

"I trusted you! I know I shouldn't have, but I did it for us… so we could actually be together as a couple…I did it to put _your _worries aside and you… I hate you!" She threw the diary into the fire and turned her back to him, sobbing.

"Silly woman!" She didn't see how he did it, but her next glance found her diary cradled in his hands as if it were something treasured. He looked sober now. "Your thoughts…" His fingers moved on the burned edges, consumed by the flames.  
She wasn't touched by the remorse on his face.

"It was my thoughts you laughed at! It was my trust you betrayed!"

"I didn't laugh at you," he murmured, leaving the diary on the armchair as if it burned his hands now. "You are right. I shouldn't have…how can I make it up to you?" He placed a hand on her arm, but she shook it away, turning her back to him again. She tried to control her tears, but embarrassment filled her, flamed her cheeks as she remembered some of the things she had written. How could she look him in the eyes again? A sob escaped her throat at the thought.

"Please don't cry…you are right …I guess I was happy, and I couldn't handle it well. I couldn't control myself…"

Christine didn't want to let herself feel moved by his rueful tone, but she did. Wasn't she the same woman who had removed his mask the previous night without saying a word? At least he had revealed his indiscretion… she stifled a sob at the thought.

"Please, Christine…you know I can't stand to see you cry! From the first time I saw you…I couldn't bear that—" He placed his hand on her shoulder again. She felt the uncertainty in his gesture. Was he so devious as to stir her curiosity or as remorseful as he sounded? She put her own hand on his, but didn't find the courage to turn and face him.

"The first time I saw you, you were crying—"

"Where was that? In my room?" she asked in a broken voice.

"In the chapel… at the opera house. It was my favorite room. At first, I was annoyed. I thought of scaring you away."

"You thought of scaring a woman who was crying?" She frowned and turned to him, her eyes locked on the ivory buttons of his waistcoat, her face still red with shame. Some of the things she had written….

"I don't know how to treat people who are crying. I don't like watching them cry. If there were a book offering ways to console _ladies in despair_, I would read it to know what to do.  
"Anyway, I saw your eyes then…they were my undoing." He sighed.

She concealed her smile. She had leaned her forehead against his waistcoat, pressing it hard as if wanting the patterns to imprint on her skin.

"I will teach you how to console people who are weeping. Sometimes all that is needed is a hug."

"A hug? I highly doubt an embrace from me would provide any consolation. It would probably make them cry even more."

"Then, I will speak only for myself."

He didn't need further encouragement. He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her to him as she lifted her face.

"That would be a prudent thing to do."

Her eyes filled with fresh tears at the concern on his face. She managed to control them this time.

"I am sorry," he muttered honestly.

"I know," she whispered against his shirt, feeling his lips on her hair.

"I am so sorry…you know it is so hard for me to change," he whispered as his lips traveled to her ear.

"I don't want you to change." Was she insane? What would he think? That she encouraged him now? "I just don't want you behaving like this." She tried to sound serious, but if she couldn't fool even herself….

"But you do not hate me," he murmured matter-of-factly against the spot where her pulse beat on her neck.

"No…I do not hate you," she managed to say. Suddenly she was having difficulty concentrating.

"I knew that." The same arrogant smile, the same confident look as he lifted her in his arms.

"What is happening to me, Erik? There are times I don't recognize myself." She watched herself with horror as she unfastened his ivory buttons.  
"Will I ever be as I used to?" She felt the bedcovers under her back. His scent on the pillow embraced her, sending shivers down her spine. "What is happening to me?" If he ever had thought of her as an innocent…

"How am I supposed to know? I have never felt like this before."

She had been innocent once. Almost unforgivably innocent and ignorant of what love was, what desire was, and most of all, of what need felt like.

"Don't we have to go to the Red Door Cottage?" she asked, her playfulness reviving as she saw the hunger in his eyes.

"We will go…but first…let's make something memorable for your diary."

II II II

"Is it your custom to take long walks in the middle of the night or scare pregnant women? Don't you think you should pick someone closer to your own size?"

Erik's gloomy voice echoed under the moonlight in an unearthly way that shook the old man.  
"Or is it the latest fashion, designed to render the Anglican Church more appealing these days?" Erik smiled, turning his face so all the man could see was his mask and the white of his yellow eyes. The effect worked. Father John shrank in his overcoat.

Erik sighed heavily. Had it only been a few hours ago that he had lain in Christine's arms? Yet here he was, waiting in the cold, dark night for an unknown enemy to deliver yet another threat. He had watched the man's dark silhouette slowly approaching the gates. It had been no great surprise when he saw him opening them. The door to the mailbox had just been opened when his voice halted the older man.

"All souls are equal before God!" The man uttered in a hard voice. Erik wondered whether this was part of one of his sermons.

"What does _that _mean? That you have the right to terrify Emily in the same measure as everyone else?" Alex had provided a vivid description of the incident before he had left.

"I was only trying to save her soul—"

"And what is this? Whose soul are you trying to save this time?" Erik snatched the letter the man held. The moonlight didn't provide enough illumination to read it. "Are you the one who's been sending these?" His voice was cold and thunderous. He highly doubted this man had anything to do with the Frenchman, but intimidation worked best on the type of people who were willing to use it themselves.

"I only sent a few…at the beginning…" Father John explained as Erik towered over him. "I only wanted to warn you—"

"Warn me about what? Speak!" Erik grabbed the man by his lapels. He remembered the smaller pack of notes which had exhorted him to let the dead rest in peace, and had spoken of something sinister lurking at the Red Door Cottage and other such nonsense.

"You shouldn't have moved here. I thought you were a good man, but now after all that's been happening—"

"_What _is happening?" Erik had to fight the urge to lift the man a few inches from the ground. Maybe that would help shake some sense into his clouded mind.

"That…pregnancy…that Frenchwoman staying unmarried in your house as if she were your wife…everyone knows what she really is! And you buying the boy touched by Sin's sign…what services…?" Erik threw the man away as if merely touching him disgusted him. Father John landed on the ground hard, hitting his head on the fence.

He watched the vicar pressing a hand over his split brow. Erik's fingers traced the thin rope under his sleeve. The sensation alone made him feel better. Only Father John's pathetic state and old age held Erik back from doing what such repulsive language incited him to do. He looked at the man, noticing his labored breathing. He wasn't more than sixty years old, but the deep wrinkles around his mouth and on his forehead ruled a face made of rough, gloomy lines.

"Are you the one who burned James' hand?" His voice shook with rage. The image of the large, ugly scar on the boy's left hand was dancing before his eyes.

The man stood but said nothing. Erik didn't trust himself to approach him. The vicar's emerald-green eyes gleamed.

"All I ever did I did for his own good. But even that couldn't save him…when one's soul is doomed from birth…"

Erik's eyes locked on the man's face for a while. Then he furrowed his brow and snatched the older man up by the shoulder, pushing him outside the tall fence.

"I don't want you contaminating my house with your sick mind, you spineless coward," he growled, watching the man look back at him in surprise. "Leave! Walk away while you still have a chance!" Erik hissed, throwing his voice into the man's ear. Father John glanced at him, startled, and started walking as fast as his feet could carry him.

II II II

The real note Erik had waited for was buried deep inside the mailbox. The same refined paper as the others, the same handwriting. Erik had sent a letter requesting that Monsieur Pineaut deliver the amount of money demanded just the day before, immediately after his arrival at the Red Door Cottage. It was only a matter of time before _they_ knew. Erik had been expecting this note. What he didn't expect was the meeting at the schoolhouse arranged for him the following night.


	33. An Understanding

Greetings to all this lovely Monday!

I want to bore you a little with what one certain character of mine would call "an etiquette issue"— he's very strict about these things. (No, he is not Erik.)

Anyway, as readers who have already reviewed this story know I always reply to reviews— this is part of the fun, isn't it? The communication…

Lately I noticed that known readers/reviewers appeared as "anonymous" as the site did not provide me the links to reply to them.

So if there is someone who is not really 'anonymous' but hasn't received a reply from me ("rude, rude Ink!" _he_ reprimands me), please send me a PM so that I'll have your link.

Boring stuff over…for now.

My eternal gratitude to Desiree and TOWDNWTBN for their efforts.

Thank you, all, for reading and reviewing. :-)

* * *

**Chapter 33 — An Understanding**

Erik shifted in his seat, trying to stretch his long legs in the excruciatingly narrow space available before him. He leaned his back against the back row of desks, pushing them a little to gain some extra space. It seemed the Frenchman relished inducing his "guest's" discomfort. Erik let his eyes wander around the room, as the school could hardly be described as a building itself. Attached to the church, its only beauty lay in the half dozen stained-glass windows it shared with it. The small village ought to be proud of such an interesting church, though. It was a mixture of Gothic architecture with elements from the Middle Ages and architectural hints dating to before the Reformation.

He had arrived an hour earlier than the arranged time, and the dull light of dusk allowed him to appreciate the beauty of the elaborate furnishings and the stencilled chancel decorations of All Saints' Church. The small, Venetian-style mosaic of Christ—clearly not made by Venetian craftsmen, but still skilfully executed and expensive—demonstrated that Father John enjoyed his role as spiritual leader of the village. The school, on the other hand, was nothing but a large, messy room that seemed extremely small, stuffed as it was with wooden desks and benches, its walls in desperate need of a brighter color. Marking the possible exits, one to the garden and the other leading to the church, Erik finally sat on a bench in the middle of the room, his senses alert. He tried not to think of anything relating to Christine, her worried face or the anxiety pouring from every little move she had made before he left. Her succulent lips repeating his words, saying that she in fact understood there was no real danger in this meeting, that until the money arrived, he was in the safest position of them all; her violet eyes showing only worry and fear. That fear evoked some guilt in Erik, as, at the moment, except for a feeling of constant irritation, the only thing he felt was a perverse sort of excitement.

"Don't you dare look back!" the Frenchman hissed, shattering the silence of the night. The same familiar voice, the same accent rang like a bell in Erik's ears. If only he could remember when the last time was that he had heard that voice, or maybe that distinctive "t." He tried to imagine what the man's teeth had to look like to produce that sound, or maybe it was the way he moved his tongue. Did the man have a lantern jaw, or was it the exact opposite? Erik should easily have recognized his voice now without the cheap coffin's wood separating them, but nothing happened. Hearing the man sit on a bench in the row of desks directly behind him, Erik wondered about the Frenchman's choice not to carry a lantern. Was he so afraid he would see him?

"Interesting choice of scenery, Monsieur-?" Erik let his voice linger in the air.

"You can call me Robur," the man offered, his tone lighter now.

"As in _Robur the Conqueror_?" Erik asked, referring to the Jules Verne novel, remembering that Robur in Latin meant "strong."

"'_Rochelle_' like the seaport on the Bay of Biscay, or the siege of La Rochelle in _The Three Musketeers_?"

"Touché." Erik let amusement lace his voice.

"You seem in a good mood!"

"Let's say I am in a good - in a _generous_, that is a more accurate word—mood, lately. But moods change fast and are less predictable than a woman's mind."

"Speaking of women, we have noted the few days you spent at the Twin House! Under the circumstances, it was quite bold of you." Robur's tone was friendly, as if he were discussing the weather in a salon.

"Bold?  
_'Ver Estatis Ubera;  
Illi mens est misera  
Qui nec vivit,  
Nec lascivit sub Estatis dextera_,'" Erik offered in a declamatory manner.

"I am afraid I know no Latin," Robur muttered.

"'_A wretched soul is he  
Who does not live  
Or lust  
Under summer's rule.'_  
Just a medieval poem about priorities," Erik explained, hiding his disappointment, realizing Robur wasn't the mastermind behind the plan, or at least not the one who chose the texts for the "ghost notes." The man responsible for the task certainly knew Latin.  
He remembered he had mentioned a brother while at the abattoir...

"In that case, we should be pleased you didn't neglect your other business—"

"As you have certainly seen, I have already asked that the requested amount of money from Monsieur Pineaut be delivered to me. I have to confess that the level of your knowledge about my financial state impressed me."

"How do you know Monsieur Pineaut isn't involved in this?"

"Of that, I am certain!"

"Do you have such faith in him?"

"I have faith in what he stands for. Marcel Pineaut has gone by his own rules for more than thirty years. If he wanted my money, he would have taken it without the theatrics."

"Perhaps he wants to hide his participation—" the man offered.

"Monsieur …_Robur_, you may have your contacts in Pineaut's business—a bit of information that he would be very interested in—but we both know what is hiding behind the façade of the peaceful accountant. Pineaut is acting as a banker for the underground world of Paris, and has maintained this role by knowing all the tricks. He wouldn't risk his reputation for anything once he compared it to what he'd lose. None of his _clients _ever missed a franc, not even during the Commune! I have faith that he keeps my money safe, as I have faith that his men will deliver it safely and only into _my hands _under the conditions I instructed in my letter."

"Aren't you afraid we control Pineaut's men?"

"If you did, this whole conversation would be redundant. On the other hand, my request will make Pineaut even more careful, so I have nothing to worry about."

"You do know we will watch Pineaut's men." Robur sounded irritated by Erik's confidence.

"I welcome that extra measure of precaution regarding my fortune," said Erik sarcastically.  
"As I also know, you do not want to trifle with him. It would set the _game _on a whole different level—"

"What do you know about _our_ level or how many noble and significant people have acted as our…_contributors_ so far?" Robur's accent became thicker. He took a deep breath as if to compose himself.  
"But you are right about one thing: we don't enjoy killing, and with a man like Pineaut, everything is life or death."

"Exactly. I'm surprised, though, that you haven't met any resistance from your _contributors _so far—"

"We are not vain people, Monsieur Rochelle! Except for one unfortunate case in which we underestimated the fragility of a man's health, all we do is truncate people's dreams—or perhaps _add something to their nightmares _is a more accurate way to describe it. We do have the capacity and the determination to succeed in our goals—make no mistake in this!—as failure is not an option, but at the end of the day, all we do is remind them of how precious life is." The man had regained all the charm he had lost after the distress Marcel Pineaut had caused him.  
"How long do you think it takes before a nobleman can erase us from his nightmares, go back to his wealthy life, his boring wife, his new lovely mistress? We don't take his whole fortune, after all! We relieve him of part of its burden—"

"I could disagree, judging from your demands of me!"

"Now, that is only a measure of precaution! We know you are not a simple victim! It would be naïve of us to think so. As a matter of fact, you are our_ inspiration_! Asking so much only means we're treating you with respect. Leaving you with the means to hunt us would be quite unwise. It is a way to …direct your efforts into more creative activities than revenge—"

"How have I been your inspiration?"

The man paused for a while. "What you did at the opera house…the way you made a fortune! Magnificent!"

Erik pressed his lips in dismay. "When do you estimate all this will end?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Since your letter hasn't reached the hands of Monsieur Pineaut yet, and until all the preparations are completed on his part…I think we will need another five to seven days. No more than a week, though. Why such interest? Are you planning to leave the village?"

"I have no intention to stay anymore. I will miss the invitations to tea, though," Erik replied sarcastically.

"Rumor has it you had a …misunderstanding with the vicar."

"I see you are interested in gossip."

"A man has to amuse himself while in the English countryside. Things are quite dull here. I hope you are not preparing any unnecessary surprise! Imagine what would happen if the poor vicar were to be found dead, hanged in the church, his arms spread like angels' wings, or crucified like his savior…after the incident with Jacob, and when people learn, not the whole, but mere pieces from your past…we will be the least of your problems!  
"I hope we do have an understanding, Monsieur Rochelle." The man's voice was hard. "We have been especially gentle to your people, believing no provocation was needed with a man of your intelligence."

Erik had to clench his hands into fists at the man's arrogant tone. He gripped the three ends of the rope resting on his lap, the thin silken cords his only means of consolation at the moment.

"You will hear from us about the arrangements. There is no reason for delay. The transaction will take place as soon as Pineaut's men bring the money."

The wooden bench behind him creaked, and Erik heard the man stand.

"I know you don't believe me at the moment, but I do have great admiration for you, Monsieur Rochelle," Robur said, and turned to leave, directing himself towards the door leading to the garden.

Erik decisively pulled at one of the ropes in his hands with all his might, and the man tripped, landing like a felled tree onto the schoolhouse floor. A spark appeared out of nowhere in Erik's palm when he rushed to the man and looked down at the Frenchman's stunned face. He had to try hard to hide his own distress as there was no recognition, nothing familiar in the features of his antagonist. The man calling himself _Robur _had brown hair and eyes, with a thick moustache covering his upper lip. The light extinguished, but not before Erik saw the man's eyes widening in surprise as he pinned him to the ground, Erik's hands close to his neck. Without releasing him, Erik withdrew a small, smooth ball from his pocket and threw it onto the ground just a foot above the man's head. Upon impact, the ball started to burn with a thin, bright blue flame, which provided dim illumination.

"I am not alone!" the man said through gritted teeth in an unrelenting tone.

"How long do you think your men will need to come here in order to save you? Will your neck hold that long, or will it crack with a sickening sound, the last sound you will ever hear? You will be _alone_ when death claims you, Robur! Do you think you will be _strong_…" Erik asked, referring to the meaning of the man's name, "when your body betrays you, and you leave this world in your own dirt and shame? Have you actually seen a man die? I have watched many, and it has never been a pleasant sight!  
And the feeling that your death will not go unpunished is very poor compensation. Revenge is a hungry feeling, good only for the taking. Inspiring revenge is no fun at all!"

"My brother will never rest—"

"I have no intention of killing you, as you have no intention of killing me!" Erik smiled.  
"Now that I have seen your face, I feel we have a better understanding, Robur. I will keep my end of the bargain, but if you hurt even a hair of my people's heads—under any circumstances…you know what I am capable of, and a clever man like you realizes you will be the first to pay."  
The blue flame died, letting darkness envelope the two men.

Erik removed his hands from the man and got up.

"Do you know what I'm paying for? It's not safety nor my life," Erik's booming voice filled the room, each sentence coming from a different direction as he chose his exit. "I am paying for not wasting my time with you…because time, lately, has become my most valuable asset."

II II II

Christine was standing with her back turned to him, the faint moonlight outlining her body under her chemise. Erik closed the bedroom door behind him.

"I heard you opening the gates." Christine glanced over her shoulder, meeting his eyes with a sweet smile on her face.

"I wanted you to hear me. I knew you would wait up for me." Worrying about him. Was it possible for this beautiful creature to be in love with him? He needed time to come to terms with that absurd notion.

His hand gently moved her hair to one side, revealing her long neck. He brushed a kiss on her nape before she turned to face him, her arm sliding around his waist.

"Your clothes are cold, your hands are still warm," she complained. "When will this go away?"

"In a month or so." He smiled at her frown of concern.

"Take off these cold clothes before you catch a cold," she ordered in that familiar tone of hers when she worried. She removed his cravat as he unbuttoned his jacket. Her hands traced the key hanging from his neck.

"You said you would show me what this key is for," she said in a mock-pout.

"I will." His fingers tangled into her loose hair. He breathed the roses in her scent.

"When?"

"Tomorrow. But beware, my love. It may not please you."

"But I want to know!"

He smiled at her stubborn expression._ His _Christine.

"Since you are a grown woman and you consider yourself warned…" He looked at her narrowing eyes. She was intrigued. "Tomorrow, I will show you the east wing of the Twin House."


	34. The East Wing

Greetings to all!

I want to thank you, all, for reading and reviewing this story.

As always, I'd like to thank Desiree and TOWDNWTBN for their efforts.

This would be an ordinary Author's Note but it isn't since I have an announcement to make: My friend Desiree got married last Saturday!

Of course I wish her all the happiness in the world but I wouldn't share this if there weren't a hidden message:

Good deeds do get paid in life…and I mean during lifetime. (I can't offer an opinion about the After Life.)

Desiree is a great girl, she's been a great friend, she gave this story a chance when it was nothing but a bunch of boring pages full of errors and now she's found her Prince and -what can be better than this?- a life full of options!

I wish you all the very best in your lives!

* * *

**Chapter 33 -The East Wing**

_«Upon my bed at night I sought him whom my soul loves; I sought him, but found him not; I called him, but he gave no answer.»  
Song of Songs, Solomon, Chapter 3_

_«Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.»_  
_Song of Songs, Solomon, Chapter 8_

Christine watched Erik pull the brass key from his neck, a deep frown on the visible part of his face. He had left his overcoat and jacket on a kitchen chair, in a carefree manner which implied it was a habit of his when entering the Twin House.

He had shown her the rooms on the ground floor and the west wing in a hasty manner, not uttering a word. He just nodded in almost absentminded agreement at her comments about the elegance of the furnishings, the luxurious bedrooms, and the craftsmanship of the artefacts. As they ascended the stairs leading to the east wing, Christine realized the entire tour of the rest of the house had only been a way for Erik to delay this moment.

The familiar muscle started working at the side of his jaw. He turned to look at her as if wanting to say something. Changing his mind, he pushed the key into the keyhole and turned it. Christine placed her hand on his arm, gaining his attention. After fixing the collar of his cream poet's shirt, she let her hand run along its ruffles. She reached for the back of his hand and wrapped her fingers around his.

"Erik—"

He shut his eyes, a devastated expression all over his face.

"You know I love you." Christine put her arms around his waist and only tightened her grip on him when he tried to pull away. "You know we don't have to do this if you don't want to," she whispered against his chest, playing with the lacing of his shirt.

He put some distance between them, and taking her chin in his hands, he forced her to meet his gaze. "Christine, I am not proud of what I've done. It only demonstrates weakness and lost control."

"But I know now—"  
He gently pressed two fingers to her lips to silence her. He traced the shape of her mouth with his thumb. His golden eyes were sad.

"Now nothing has changed. That man is still who I am. I feel more comfortable in his thoughts, in his feelings, than in the happiness I should be feeling." He sighed and turned, opening the door to reveal the corridor of the east wing. Christine gasped at the sight.

Silken, ruby-colored wallpaper urged her to run her hand over the walls. It felt exquisite under the pads of her fingers, the color vivid and striking, as almost invisible golden lines of thread ran through the fabric from top to bottom.

"Erik, I haven't seen anything like this before!" she said, admiration pouring from her voice.

"You have Signor Rubelli to thank for this. His men made all the tapestries and the wallpaper in the Twin House, following the sketches and drawings I sent him to the very last detail. His workshop is the one that made the wallpaper for the Teatro de la Fenice."

"Why don't you live here? Twin House is obviously ready, and it is so beautiful—" Her voice trailed off as she looked at the lamps on the wall, which were made of crystal and fine rosewood. It was still morning, a soft light emerging from the windows whenever the sun appeared between the late autumn clouds.

"Moving here was never the purpose of this renovation," Erik muttered elusively as he hung the key on a hook that looked like part of a complicated sculpture attached to the wall. At the outer end, it formed two open palms painted in the same deep red as the wallpaper. The brass key was now hanging from one of them, making small circles in the air, while the other remained open and empty as if asking for something.

"What is the other one for?" Christine asked.

"There is no time for that now." Erik pressed his lips into a hard line.

Seeing his gloomy face, Christine started to regret her choice to see the east wing; then Erik opened the last of the three doors in the corridor. A bright golden light almost blinded her, as if someone were shining a lantern in her face in the middle of the night. She hesitantly stepped into the room, searching for the source of such strange illumination. Her eyes lifted towards the ceiling. It looked as if it were made of pure gold, and reflected light poured into the vast room.

"Let me fix this," Erik muttered through his teeth, and moved a lever at the other side of the room near a window. The ceiling moved smoothly above them, changing its angle. The light, still golden, became softer, but still as bright as a morning in the Mediterranean. Christine thought of Italy.

"How did you do this? It's pure magic!" she whispered, comparing the pale light in the corridor – which now seemed dull and sickly – to the bright yellow of the enormous bedroom.

"Hardly magic," Erik's smile softened the hard lines on his face. "Only if mirrors are magic, and golden paint, and some other little golden things…"

Christine tried to focus on the ceiling, in spite of how tempted she was to let her gaze wander the room. She could actually see small shards of mirror and gold-painted semicircles erupting from the uneven, gilded surface of the ceiling. She could see the trick now. The shattered pieces of mirror reflected even a candle's light a thousand times. And as the golden surface beamed like a thousand stars, the light emanating from it appeared bright and warm, coming as it did from that strange mosaic made of those unusual elements. No crystal chandelier could have gleamed brighter.

"Oh, Erik." Words failed her as her eyes dropped to a magnificent canopy bed and the thick silk coverings. She let her hand test the feel of them, and she felt her face grow hot.

Her blush seemed to amuse Erik and lighten the ominous expression on his face.

"Whose bed is this?" she asked, just wanting to hear the answer from his lips.

"Yours, Christine. Only yours."

"Mine?"

"Why are you so surprised? I made a room for you once. Why not a whole house?"

"How did you know we—?"

"I _didn't _know! That is the problem! Can't you see? This isn't a room made by a man so much in love that deep down, he always hoped you would come back to him. This is a room, a house made by a man so addicted to you, the addiction captivating every thought in his mind…" Frustrated, he ran a hand over his head, pulling off his wig as he did so and tossing it onto a chair.

"The only way I found to be able to _function _in a manner resembling normalcy" – his mocking tone sent shivers down her spine– "was to create a place, a dream house I could live in with my insanity. The only reason Emily and James think of me as a sane man is because from time to time, I locked myself in the east wing and lived the dream of your having stayed with me, loving me!" He sighed heavily. "This is a place for my addiction, my obsession to be lived and contained. It is not a place of joy, nor a place of hope. It is a place of ridiculous, embarrassing weakness."

Christine had to avert her eyes from his pained features. Would she ever forgive herself for the pain she had caused him? Her gaze locked on a mural covering the whole wall, at least fifteen feet high. A young man with wings looking longingly towards the ceiling and a sun vaguely painted. His one wing outstretched, trying to hold his full weight in the air while the other was pulled in towards his chest as if wounded.

"An angel?"

"There are no angels here. Only men pretending to be something more than they really are. This is Ikarus. His wings are made of feathers and wax; his only means to escape to freedom, they are starting to melt, but he can't stop himself from flying towards the sun."

"How sad!"

"Ikarus knew what he was doing. His father, Daedalus, had warned him not to fly too close to the sun. The thrill of flying high was so strong, so fierce that he couldn't help himself. The heat melted the wax, his wings fell apart—"

"What happened to him?"

"Whatever happens to all fools, young ones, or dreamers…he fell into the sea and drowned."

"No ancient god saved him? No hero went to his salvation?"

"They gave his name to the sea that drowned him," Erik said cynically. "For the young to take example and the older to remember."

"So this is the bedroom you envisioned for us," Christine said, sadness lacing her tone. She could see some of her possessions — a glove, a book, a hairbrush — lying on the furniture as if she were indeed living there. She didn't want to envision Erik wandering around this room alone.

"No," he stated gravely. "This is _your _room."

She met his eyes, puzzled. "But if this is your fantasy house—"

"In my fantasy, I wasn't bold enough to assume we would share a bedroom. Mine is next door."

A secret door opened to reveal an equally large bedroom drenched in midnight blue and indigo colors. The wallpaper was so dark-colored that Christine felt as if she were walking from bright daylight into evening in just a few steps. The only illumination was provided by six rows of small windows in the ceiling which allowed a clear view of the sky, as the heavy curtains at the two wide windows were closed, completely blocking the sun. Instead of the pale pink-marbled fireplace in her room, there was a massive mantelpiece made of black marble with purple veins. It was a very masculine room, the only warmth provided by some wooden details and the thick carpets.

Christine grasped Erik's hands in hers, tears welling up in her eyes. "Don't you see? Reality is so much better than fantasy! We may not live in such luxury, but we share the same bed, and I sleep in your arms every night! I wouldn't change that for anything!"  
She kissed the knuckles of his hands, looking into his shadowed eyes. He shook his head, deep in thought. He seemed troubled, as if deciding to do something that would only cause him pain.

"What is it, Erik? Talk to me!"

When he spoke, his beautiful voice was strained. "There is a reason for the separate bedrooms in my fantasy….you see, I couldn't force you to endure this for a lifetime…but in my dream…I wore no mask…"

She had to fight to hear his last words, but suddenly everything was clear. The second open hand in the sculpture, his mood all day. She squeezed his hands to make him look at her.

"We can have this, all of this! There is no reason to hide your face from me. I love your face…I love you! How could I not?" He pulled his hands away, taking a step back. He had turned pale. "Don't look so surprised, Erik. I mean it when I say your face means nothing to me. There is no horror there. Don't look so—"

"Don't you dare tell me how I look! I know exactly how I look! Do you want to see for yourself, my brave love? Do you think you are braver now? Stronger, perhaps?" His rising voice, the anger in his eyes, the vein pulsing at his temple made Christine stand still, bracing herself for the revelation she expected.

But no revelation took place. Instead, Erik grabbed her by the arm and almost dragged her into another room through one more secret door. Christine hardly had the time to register more details there than a grand piano. Erik had left her, searching through some drawers and a chest, his back turned to her, every movement of his muscles speaking of anger and despair. A large pile of sketches landed at her feet when he faced her again.  
One by one, more sketches, more drawings found their way to the floor after their uncertain flight through the air as his shaking hands threw them towards her, his face a strange mask of controlled fury and ice. Christine didn't have to take one in her hand to see what they showed. They were all portraits of him, his deformity enhanced by every horrible detail, outlined, described in the most cruel, clinical way. She had to fight with all her strength to keep a brave face. Any guilt over her trickery in taking off his mask when he had been unconscious vanished at that very moment.

"Horror, don't you agree?" He smiled bitterly. "Every time I came here, every day and night I spent looking at the ceiling or playing the piano, dreaming of how our life would have been if you were here…I couldn't find the strength to go back. Red Door Cottage has provided a solace from this, from you, from my pathetic, never-ending need of you. It is the closest I've ever tasted of normal life, but still I couldn't drag my feet away from you, from the ghost of what if…" He sighed heavily.

"Do you know what it was like for me to think of you in his arms? To hear you were having _his _child? _This_ is horror, _my love_!" he exclaimed with burning eyes, pacing around the room. "And still, I couldn't find the heart to leave this wretched place!  
So I found a way. I am a resourceful man, after all!  
Each time, I drew a self-portrait. I forced myself to look at my face in the mirror for each one of these drawings. Do you know how many hours it takes to draw such detailed sketches? To paint them, too? How many mirrors it takes?" He laughed at what seemed to be a private joke. "How many angles? To be as realistic as possible? Don't cry, Christine. It isn't worth it! These are mere facts."

Christine brought her hands to her face, surprised by the moisture there. So much for being brave. She ran to his bedroom to hide her disappointment. The darkness enveloped her. The golden light from her room called to her, warm and alluring. She stood hesitantly, looking at it.

"No matter how deeply I hated him—" His voice was tired. He had followed her. "It wasn't my hatred for your husband or your life with him that set me free, that let me go back to my life. It was the deep, unshakable belief that I do not deserve you…no matter what you think you have done wrong, Christine, this is a punishment too harsh, too cruel for anyone to endure for a lifetime…" He took a deep breath and sat at the edge of the bed.

"You think this because you don't love yourself as I love you." She turned her back to the golden light and approached him.

"That is my stubborn, curious Christine. Now that you want a fresh look at _your lover_, you'll be able to comment on my art," he said with bitter humor, raising his hands to the back of his head where she knew the ties of his mask were.

She cupped the white piece of leather with her hand before it fell to the ground like the drawings just a while ago. For the first time in her life, she saw raw fear in his eyes. Stroking his unmarred cheek with her other hand, she gently removed the mask, revealing the misshapen features.

"What do you think? Did I do it justice?" She smiled at the cynical tone he mustered, bringing her lips to the bumps and the scarred tissue.

"_My_ love," she whispered between slow, gentle kisses, "_my _soul, _my_ fate…" She pressed her hands on his cheeks, kissing his eyes. "_My_ life, _my_ face… _my _Erik."

She didn't know whose tears she tasted. She fervently untied the knots of his poet's shirt, wanting to feel all of him, to show him where he truly belonged.  
He stopped her, burying his marred face against her chest, breathing heavily, holding her tight, as if afraid she'd disappear.

"I _know _I am not the man you deserve. Sometimes, I think that this is all you will get from me. Tears and cause for more tears." She roughly cupped his face again, forcing him to look in her eyes.

"You are the man I want."

"The man you want has nothing of value to give you anymore."

She thought of a thousand things to tell him. Oaths of undying love and words of sweet reassurance, but she knew none of these would persuade Erik. Only time would show him, only time could make him believe. Only time could heal his wounds.

"This beast is not going to change after the kiss, Christine." His tone was sarcastic, but his stare on her was sad and desperate.

She gathered all her courage as she let a mischievous smile form on her face.

"We have already tried that, Erik…" She let her full weight push him back against the deep blue bedcover. "And to be honest…I wouldn't change that beast for the world!"

II II II

Erik opened his eyes to the softly glowing fire. It would need more logs in a while, but he couldn't care less. His arm felt numb, and he tried to stretch his muscles without waking the woman sleeping on his shoulder. He welcomed the feeling of pins and needles, as it made him feel awake. He brought his other hand under his head, trying to combine the image of Christine really sleeping in his arms with all the nights he had spent in that bed, imagining he had been hearing her voice in the next room. Amazing!

She stirred into a more comfortable position, wrapping her hand around his bare chest.

Of all the tortures he had endured in life, love was the cruelest.  
That deep, never sated longing even when she was his…hadn't she kissed him again and again, breathing his name in every kiss? Hadn't she showed him her love?  
Still, that pure agony, that uncertainty…would her eyes look at him in the same loving way when she awakened?

Suddenly, he wanted to wake her only to see the first, unrestrained expression on her face. In an unconscious gesture, he pressed his scarred face on the pillow and moved his arm a little. A moan of dissatisfaction escaped her rosy, swollen lips. He traced their shape with his thumb, raw desire claiming him again. He gently pushed a lock away from her face and let his palm rest on her collarbone. She wrapped a leg around him and unwillingly opened her eyes.

"Do we have to leave?" she asked, half pouting, half complaining.

"We don't have to leave if you don't want to. At least not today, maybe not even tomorrow."

She opened her eyes, looking fully awake. She was smiling and, at least at this moment, he could swear he saw no repulsion, no regret in her eyes. Relief washed over him.  
"What do you want us to do? Just name it!"

Burying her face in his neck, she pressed her body against his. "I just want to stay here…I want to learn everything about you!"

He was sure she heard his heart racing.

"I realized there are so many things I don't know about you," she continued, seeming oblivious to his distress. "What your favorite color is, your favorite food—I know the dessert! —what you like…besides music—"

He sighed heavily. "That is easy! Violet…and black." He paused, thinking for a while. "Roasted lamb with mushrooms, and sunrays dancing on my pillow in the morning. I'll never get used to those…"

She raised her face towards his and kissed his marred flesh. How could she do that?  
Self-consciously, he turned her around and drew her back against himself so she was facing the fireplace and the painting on the opposite wall. Without complaint, she leaned against his chest, her body between his spread legs as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

"When was the first time you thought of me…like this?" Even if he couldn't see her face, he could hear the naughty smile in her voice, her playful tone. "Or don't you remember?" She caught his hand in hers and started playing with his fingers.

"I remember…I _do _remember…" he answered absentmindedly, looking at her full curves before his eyes. She covered herself with the sheet, throwing a reproving glance over her shoulder.

"Well, I have to admit, at first I was content at having the connection we shared through music. You would sing…I could show you what I felt through my music. That was supposed to be enough. There were times I wanted to reveal myself to you…when you hurt your temple—"

"How do you remember that? I had just come to the opera house!"

"I have a good memory," he stated more seriously than intended. "Anyway, it was only when a ballet dancer, that ...Alain, gave you that box of chocolates, and I heard you talking about him with Meg…I had also heard you talk about having a family some other times—"

"You remember Alain's chocolates? That was nonsense! I never cared for him!" Her laughter sounded like Sunday morning's bells in his ears, but didn't stop him from feeling highly irritated at the memory of the bold, fair-skinned ballet dancer. His hand cupped her naked breasts in a possessive gesture that eased the feeling a little.

"I realized you had grown—"

"Of course I had grown! I was eighteen! Emily was already married at that age!"

"And if it wasn't Alain, someone else would eventually have gained your affections," he concluded as if she hadn't interrupted him.

"So you thought why not you, to be the one—"

"It was a little more complicated than that. I didn't want to lose you. I hadn't thought it possible before."

"You needn't have worried about Alain. He had a peculiar smell…"

Erik felt a broad smile grow on his face. He tried to conceal it as he noted Christine's questioning glance on him. He wondered whether his silence was incriminating.

"I know," he confirmed in a perfectly controlled voice. "Dancers usually have those problems. It's a matter of hygiene," he added matter-of-factly.

"Erik! _You _did that to him! Poor man! He smelled awful!" She turned in his embrace, looking fully at him now. "I had heard him saying he couldn't get rid of that stench no matter how hard he'd tried. You are awful!"

"I hope he didn't provide any details about how hard he did try." He felt himself frown at her, since she had a clear view of his face, but her mock-scolding tone and the smile in her eyes were contagious.

"Erik, you are evil!" Somehow it sounded like a compliment. He found himself smiling.

She made herself comfortable on his shoulder again.

"I would like to have children, _your _children," he heard her say after a long pause. "I am so sorry I can't give you that…a woman should be able to do that for her man." He felt his muscles stiffen at her words, her pained tone causing him pain, too. He drew her closer to him.

"Maybe it is more of a blessing…I have thought about it, too. But in dreams, children are never born deformed. In reality, though…"

"I would love my child, no matter what. You know that, Erik!" His stubborn, strong-minded Christine all over again.

"I know it, but could you stand the guilt over his fate? What would you say to your deformed son when he realized he was so different, when he blamed you for your choice of a monstrous father?" He tried to sound humorous, but he couldn't erase the cruelty of his words. He couldn't lie to her either. No one should do that to a child if he had a choice.

"I hope I would be patient enough not to say something extremely harsh to my son. It would be my husband he'd be talking about, my love…so he'd better not be insolent, or he would deeply regret it. As you will regret saying such words," she said, rolling on top of him, dragging the sheet with her to cover her naked body.

"Husband…hmm…" He chuckled, pretending to be deep in thought. "I think I remember reading something about it in your diary. It was related with some burned pies." She groaned against his chest, hiding her face with her hair. "Then that would make you my wife?"

She eagerly nodded her agreement, still hiding behind her curls.

"My modest, shy little wife?" he asked as a devilish grin formed on his face. He removed the sheet to get a better view of her body. She smiled at him and started nibbling the column of his throat.

"We'd better keep that I made the proposal a secret, _husband_," she teased him. "You know…something between you and me. It wouldn't be proper for our image," she whispered in his ear before her lips continued their trails down his skin.

His deep, hearty laughter filled the room.


	35. Wednesday the Best Day of All

Greetings to all, along with my wishes for an easy week. Let's leave troubles to novel heroes who can handle them…

Thank you all for reading and reviewing this story.

And above all, I thank Desiree and TOWDNWTBN for making this story readable…

* * *

**Chapter 35 –"Wednesday the Best Day of All"**

"I am _not_ leaving!" Christine said in a decisive voice. "I am not leaving _you_. I don't know how you can ask this of me after the last couple of days at the Twin House, after… _this_ _morning_!" She bit her trembling lip. She heard the hint of hysteria lacing her words and took a deep breath to calm herself. Christine ran her hand over her dress, which was ivory with blue details, as if to smooth an invisible wrinkle. She refused to cry! She was determined not to cry, especially on a day like this.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The reflection greeting her was that of a stranger, of a woman with flushed cheeks and wild, loose curls—he had specifically instructed her to leave her hair down this morning, no matter her objections. Fashion and etiquette meant nothing to him. The woman in the reflection still looked happy, as if the taste of her earlier joy was too strong to dilute so easily. Easily?  
A sad smile appeared on the happy woman's face. Christine felt sorry for her.

Her eyes fell on the plate with the piece of the dark, rich fruitcake Emily must have baked last night. He had planned every little detail. What had Emily been humming today?  
"_White-chosen right  
Blue-love will be true."_

The Welshwoman had seemed pleased this morning. A certain sadness veiled her eyes, but this was to be expected, given the circumstances. Now the circumstances had changed. Emily must be extremely happy, and Christine was that woman in the mirror whose happiness had been robbed.

What was that other saying about the days?  
"_Wednesday the best day of all,  
Thursday for crosses,  
Friday for losses, and  
Saturday for no luck at all."_  
Was today really Wednesday? Perhaps it was Friday….

Suddenly, she hated all those superstitious English sayings and the little songs she had wholeheartedly enjoyed this very morning.  
Suddenly, her lace choker with the tiny pearls and diamonds—a gift that with her reluctance had replaced her yellow necklace for the day—felt too tight. The woman in the mirror lifted a satin-gloved hand, trying to untie what now seemed like a tangled knot, suffocating her. Her movements were anxious, desperate. A pair of much larger, kidskin-sheathed hands—pearl-colored gloves were his only extraordinary piece of clothing along with his light-gray waistcoat—came to her rescue.

In a matter of seconds, the necklace lay on her dresser, abandoned and useless, much like how she felt. She picked up her yellow pendant and tried to put it on with trembling hands. In vain! Now, _she_ had become superstitious. The large hands, once more, came to her aid. They were gloveless now, warm as they caressed her shoulders and the skin revealed by her modest bodice. Had it been only three days ago he had called her "_his shy, modest wife_"? At the moment, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Anger filled her at her loss, and she finally found the courage to look at the golden eyes in the mirror. "I am not leaving! There must be another way!" she almost shouted at him. She winced at hearing her own voice. His gaze on her was unwavering.  
"At least help me get out of this mockery—" Her voice broke, but she managed to raise her chin. Her hands unfastened the top buttons of her ivory dress.

"Christine—" Had he known his voice would be her undoing? Was that why he had deprived her of its powerful, beautiful sound, now laced with sadness and a harshness that didn't remain unnoticed? Whether he wished to reprimand or console her, her eyes flooded with tears that now streamed down her cheeks, running over the corner of her mouth.

She heard him growl, burying his face in her hair, sliding his arms around her in a tight embrace that almost left her breathless.

"You said a hug is all it takes," he complained after a while when the tears didn't subside.

"You can't ask me to leave you, Erik, and expect a hug to solve anything." She stifled a sob.

Still holding her by the waist, her back crushed against his chest, he clumsily wiped her tears with the pads of his fingers, his eyes gleaming in the mirror.

"Do you think that if there were any other way, I would choose this one?"

"What if Robert hadn't come today? What if he hadn't returned all of a sudden?" She turned to face him.

"Robert is here to help me…to help you and Emily get out of Red Door Cottage safely. If it hadn't been today, it could have been yesterday or tomorrow or the day after. What is important is that he risked coming back, and he is here on time! I've already told you! I myself wrote him a letter explaining the situation and asking for his help—"

"What if he hadn't found that note in his pocket? What if he didn't care enough to help? You surely must have thought of something else!" she challenged him.

"Of course I had another plan, but it would have been far more dangerous for all of us! Is that what you want? Tell me that it's what you want, and I will do it, Christine."

He knew her so well! She turned her back to him again, the woman in the mirror now looking as desperate as she felt, her cheeks pale, her eyes wide with unshed tears.

"And how do you know Robert will honor his part and actually present himself this evening? We haven't seen him yet…he hasn't sent a word. You've just said he's coming to get us out of Red Door Cottage this evening. What if you're wrong—" She wanted even a tiny piece of hope. He did not permit her even that. Placing his hands on her waist, he gently moved her to the window.

"What do you see in that tree over there?" She wanted to close her ears to his words. She didn't care for his plan, which would provide her a safe future. She just wanted this day, now.

"I can't see anything special," she said stubbornly. "There is a pillowcase on a high branch, but that's not strange. Probably the wind carried it there from the clothesline—"

"_That _is the signal Robert is here. He has done everything I asked, and he'll wait till evening to appear."

Christine sighed heavily. "Help me with this dress."

Erik started unbuttoning the countless pearl buttons, his movements deft and gentle as if caressing the eyelets.

"How long have you known this? That Robert is here?"

"I saw the pillowcase only this morning. I didn't appreciate his timing very well, either," he replied in a half-mocking, half-bitter tone.

"And still, you didn't say anything until now—"

He shifted her in his arms, his voice gravely serious when he talked. "Christine, you have to understand I wouldn't change anything… I could not change anything, no matter what. I've waited for this my whole life." His eyes were burning her. "You have time to pack this dress, and when we are together and safe again, you will wear it only for me, and I will take it off _again _with all the respect and care that befits." His tone was playful now, matching the half-smile on the visible side of his face.

"Then we will separate tonight? I am to go with Robert?" she asked miserably.

"You will go with Emily. Don't you want to be by her side in case she needs something?"

All the baby garments she had helped sew and knit and add laces to came to mind, but the selfish part of her would gladly have bidden Emily farewell at that very moment. At least _she _would have Robert by her side.

"It will be safer for me, too," he added, sensing her doubts. "I will have a clear head, knowing you are safe. After all, in four to five days at the most, I'll join you. Don't you have patience enough to wait four days?" The same sly smile appeared on his face.

Christine felt herself pouting. How fitting for her and the image of the mature, decisive woman she wished to show!  
By that time, he had her seated on the armchair by the fireplace. He unlaced her cream-colored silk slippers, his fingers moving about their blue beads with swift, focused movements.

"You have to change clothes now, Christine. A traveling outfit, something dark-colored, something warm…"

"I hadn't imagined being undressed in _this _fashion on such a day as today," she muttered bitterly, looking at him as he knelt before her.

"I don't want to _think _or imagine anything now, or I will never let you go…" he growled, running a hand through his short hair.

Christine bowed her head, looking at her gloved hands resting helpless in her lap. She started peeling off her gloves, a task he, as much as she, had avoided so far. She let them fall to the floor, cupping one hand in the other, averting her eyes from her ring.

No need to inflict more pain on herself. She had to be strong.

II II II

The tears she had felt stinging her throat all afternoon were now free to flow. She didn't let them. She squeezed the small book in her hand, resisting the urge to throw it in the mud as she walked the few dozen yards that separated her from the cart Robert had brought. She saw him in the darkness as he helped seat Emily in the back, way too high and uncomfortable for a woman in her condition.

Robert had been true to his word, his stupid pillowcase signal, his love for Emily and for his unborn child, and had appeared in the kitchen half an hour after the night's darkness had set in. He had left the cart a few yards outside the Red Door Cottage estate, and he had immediately started to load the few possessions the women had gathered for the journey.

Christine had seen him enclosing Emily in his arms, tears gleaming in his eyes as he looked at her swollen belly. Emily was huge but looked absolutely beautiful, her hazel eyes restless as she watched Erik, her hands stroking Jamie's unruly hair, whispering in his ear. Christine admired her for her strength at a moment like this, but then bitterness prevailed. Emily would finally be with the father of her child. _She _was the one who was being torn away from Erik with every step she took, and it was tearing her apart.

All afternoon, she had been overwhelmed with emotion, her stomach a tight, painful knot, preventing any words from coming out. She was thankful for that now, as she felt that if she opened her mouth, her scream would spoil every carefully-made plan for secrecy.

Instead, she gritted her teeth and straightened her hunched shoulders. She knew Erik was watching her. She knew he was in pain, too.

She had hugged Jamie tightly before she left. The poor boy had looked at her in puzzlement. She felt for him. He was almost as dependent on Erik as she was. He didn't know it yet, but he would be forced to leave him, too. If it wasn't tomorrow, it would be the day after. Erik would never risk his safety. Jamie would have to leave the village, his mother, and Mary. He must have guessed all that, but he was smiling, nevertheless, hoping he would be with Erik till the end. He was wrong.

Christine let Robert help her into the cart. She sat beside Emily like an automaton, covering herself with the blanket meant for her. Her eyes fell on the woman's trunk, which probably carried all her possessions and the baby's clothes. Her own traveling satchel seemed small and lonely.

Robert climbed onto the box and spurred the horse on with a quick flick of the reins. The sound of the hooves barely registered in her ears beneath the blowing wind. The air was heavy with moisture carried from afar, but the clouds in the sky were few, though they occasionally hid the half moon.

Emily sank lower—no one could see the two women in the cart—and cupped her hand reassuringly.

"Don't worry. He will be fine."

"He has no care for the danger he's getting into," Christine whispered bitterly. "In the past—"

"In the past…he didn't have _you_!" Emily squeezed her hand and shifted in her uncomfortable position.

Christine rested her head on her satchel, adjusting the hood of her cloak. She was still holding the small, thick book in her hand. He had given it to her just before she left.

"What is it? _The Song of Songs, Psalms and Hymns_?" she had read the title aloud. It was a strange choice for Erik.

"'_Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet,'"_ he had smiled at her cryptically and traced her lips with his thumb. "'_Thy love is better than wine.' _Far better, Christine..." He had sighed, still smiling. "Keep this with you. There is nothing suspicious about a woman carrying a hymnal."

She had opened the book, recognizing a chapter of Solomon's Songs in the first pages. The letters were almost brown. It was an old book.

"All the pages are stuck in the back," she had muttered, more to herself.

"Leave them now. There is no time for that." He had distracted her, pulling her close to himself.

"Time for what?" She had asked as she left the book on his desk.

"You can't blame a man for being cautious, Christine, or protective." He had used that condescending tone that he knew always infuriated her.

"You can't blame a woman, either!" she had declared stubbornly. "And in case you are planning to be reckless or thoughtless about your safety, I warn you, Erik, and mark my words: _your_ fate will be _my _fate! It is sealed."

He had tried to lessen the seriousness of her tone, smiling one of his half-cynical, half-teasing smiles.

"With this _your fate-my fate_, are you implying something?" Contrary to his tone, his eyes had been gravely serious.

"I just thought I should make some things clear in case you needed any additional motivation."

"Christine, I have been so careful throughout all this…my behavior since all this mess began could easily be described as one of a coward!"

"Don't you dare say that! Don't you even dare _think _it!" The lump lodged in her throat had kept her silent for a while. Pressing her palm on his chest, she had calmed herself by feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "Whatever you do… whatever you have to do to get back safely to me…do it, Erik. Don't hesitate. Don't think twice about me, about anyone. Just come back to me!"

He had crushed her into his arms, not saying anything; their breathing was uneven and labored.

"Please, Erik…don't make me go. I have a terrible feeling about this," she had whispered miserably.

He had lifted her up, his hands around her waist, looking straight into her eyes.

"That is all Emily's fault! Damn her silly Welsh premonitions! She has driven you insane since this morning. You can't take her seriously, Christine!"

"Don't blame Emily. I don't need great encouragement. Once, I believed in angels…" Her teasing had erased the irritation in his eyes.

"I beg you, Christine. Don't make it more difficult than it is." He had leaned his forehead on hers with his eyes closed.

At that moment, she had wished for them to be old. A couple of boring, elderly people, tired of life and living. Then his scent—that sweet scent with a hint of smokiness—would have meant nothing to her anymore, his touch would have excited her no more, would have been more familiar than the touch of her own hands, and the most exciting thing that could have happened to them might be their being late for tea. At that moment, she would have sacrificed all the promise of future with the man she loved just to feel him safe again, to be rid of that fear.

That same familiar fear gripped her now, made her want to crawl out of her skin. She opened the book with trembling hands. A single piece of paper fell out as she turned the first pages. It was a sheet of music with something scribbled on the back. The moonlight was hardly enough for her to read by. Running a finger over the notes, she put it back and traced the stuck pages of the hymnal. In her effort to reveal what lay within them, one page was torn, and then another and another. Emily was looking at her, confused, as she tore more pages until a secret box appeared, tightly fixed into a space cut into the last hundred pages of the book. She had some difficulty removing the box from the hole cut exactly to its size, and waited for the moon to emerge from the clouds before opening it. But the moonlight wasn't necessary to see what the box contained. More than a handful of precious gemstones: diamonds, emeralds, and rubies gleamed before her eyes.

"Christine!" Emily exclaimed in surprise, picking up what seemed to be a sapphire, which had slipped onto the blanket from Christine's full palm.

Christine looked at the large and the smaller stones in her palm. There were more in the box. A lot more.

"_You can't blame a man for being cautious, or protective_." His words echoed in her mind as a chill shuddered through her. These were her protection in case something happened. To him.

She imagined herself living in his cottage on the outskirts of Paris again as she had done for more than two years. She wouldn't have any financial worries this time. If she wanted, she could sell the house, buy another one wherever she wanted. She had the funds in her palm. He had made sure of this. Who knew what other arrangements he had made? She growled to keep herself from screaming. Only Emily's stare on her kept her from throwing the gems onto the ground. Instead, she hastily put them back into the box and closed the book.

"Stop! Robert, stop the cart!" The man glanced at her over his shoulder. Something in her eyes, in her voice convinced him she was dead serious.

"What are you doing?" Emily held her arm.

"Take this for me." She slipped the music sheet between her bodice and her corset before handing Emily the book. "I'm going back."

"That is ridiculous! Christine, please be reasonable!" She barely heard Robert's voice.

"If you don't stop the cart, I'll jump." She covered Emily with her blanket, and moved towards the edge.

"Don't do this. Erik said—" Emily's words were muffled by the wind.

Christine was at the edge of the cart, her feet dangling, when she heard Robert clicking his tongue to the horse. The cart halted. She didn't wait for him to help her down. She jumped down and gestured for him to leave.

Emily's eyes were wide and scared. Christine smiled at her and turned her back, starting to walk. She smiled to herself, too. Fear was contagious. She knew that. Now she felt more in control, her fear diminishing with every step she took. Now it was Emily who was afraid.

II II II

Christine knew the chilling wind was to blame for her steps getting shorter by the minute, but she felt warm and kept going. Her black wool high-buttoned traveling boots would be ruined, but she couldn't have cared less. Not the drizzle, not even Erik's anticipated anger and disappointment, were enough for her to regret her decision. The only thing she regretted was that she hadn't climbed out of the cart sooner.

She remembered that they had passed the crossroads and had followed the road leading to Swindon instead of the village, so when she walked past it again, she had to restrain herself from running. No more than ten or fifteen minutes of fast walking and she would be home. Would she make it there before he had left for the Twin House?

The dull sound of a cart behind her reached her ears through the wind as she had her first glimpse of the lights at the Red Door Cottage. The fires in the hearths of the library and the music room had been blazing even before she left in an attempt to make everything appear ordinary and normal.  
Christine tried to flatten herself against the taller hedge at the left side of the lane to remain unnoticed, but it was too late. She shuddered as she heard the cart halt a few feet before her. Straightening her shoulders against the wind, the drizzle, and the fear that had her shivering under her heavy traveling suit, she gazed at the man who had turned to look at her.

"Madame Giry?" the man asked hesitantly.

"Mr. Hamilton!" Christine exclaimed, relieved, recognizing his voice. She approached the familiar cart, hoping he wouldn't ask her what she was doing there in the middle of the night.

Fortunately, the man seemed more distressed than she was.

"Please allow me to escort you to the Red Door Cottage!" He had climbed down from the cart and was reaching for her hand. Christine hesitated, frowning. What was_ he _doing at this hour away from home? Could a late delivery have delayed him so much?

As if hearing her questions, Mr. Hamilton smiled at her reassuringly.

"I am going to the Red Door Cottage, anyway. I received a note half an hour ago. It was very strange. According to it, it is a matter of life and death that I deliver this letter to Monsieur Rochelle immediately."

"God!" Christine pressed her hand to her chest.

"I have to see that this reaches his hands." He tapped his jacket pocket under his overcoat.  
"May I help you?"

Now Christine gave him her hand, her heart fluttering.

II II II

Emily had watched Christine's dark silhouette reduce to a black dot as the distance between them grew. She wondered how long it would take for her to reach the Red Door Cottage. Half an hour? More? The wind was blowing against her. That would definitely stall her. Would she notice the dark clouds gathering in the north? Would she be safely home before the heavy rain started?

Home. Emily placed a protective hand on her belly. The only time and place she had felt "at home" during her entire adult life had been while living at the Red Door Cottage. Maybe that was the reason her heart felt so heavy at leaving it behind and her stomach constricted almost in pain. She tried to shake away the ominous feeling responsible for that constant bitter taste in her mouth and hid the book under Christine's clothes in her satchel. The white garment caught her eye, but she tucked it in gently and fastened the bag firmly.

She had just adjusted the blankets around her when she saw a light far away in the road before them. The light moved from side to side twice, and then was held still.

"Robbie—" she whispered, but the wind took her words away. She couldn't see his face, and he didn't turn to offer a word of consolation.

The carriage went on at a steady pace, approaching the light—what seemed like a lantern hanging now from a branch—while a horseman, completely blocking their way, held up his hand, its palm facing them in an unmistakable signal for them to stop.

Hearing Robert muttering a curse through his teeth, Emily felt herself shrinking under her blankets. She slid her arms around herself and held her breath, waiting.


	36. Cassandra

Greetings to all!

It's a rainy Monday and I have a stray black cat resting on my balcony. She or he (probably he) tries to avoid getting wet. So far he's been lucky. A small rug placed there especially for him is keeping him warm… ;-)

Thank you for reading and reviewing! (broad, wide smiles while writing this...)

I'd also like to thank Desiree and TOWDNWTBN for their hard work. Hugs!

* * *

**Chapter 36- Cassandra**

"Didn't I instruct you to stay at home?" Erik's booming voice cut the wind's sound in two. He glanced over his shoulder before running a hand over his face, sweeping the raindrops away. "Next time you want to sneak up on someone, wear soft leather shoes, James."

"I didn't want to 'sneak up' on you! I just wanted to spend the night at the Twin House." James revealed himself, the hint of a smile on his lips.

"A very sudden change of heart, considering I specifically asked you to stay at the Red Door Cottage. It could be dangerous—"

"I'll go back first thing in the morning for Mr. Hamilton, and I won't interfere with your preparations."

Erik entered the kitchen, tossing his soaked jacket on the kitchen table, irritation and anger pouring from his every movement. Now, with Christine heading to safety, he could feel his own emotions of frustration and disappointment welling up.

He frowned and composed himself, not wanting the boy to think he was mad at him. A muscle tightened in his jaw. There had been a time in his life when he couldn't have cared less for other people's lives. When had he started caring about their feelings? He sighed, tired. Maybe he could start setting his traps tomorrow. After all, Pineaut's men were not meant to arrive before tomorrow evening. He'd have plenty of time.

Watching James building a fire, he remembered all the nights they had spent in comfortable silence together during the past several years.

"Do you want something to eat?" Erik asked, pouring some Scotch into a glass. He tried to exile all thoughts of the mischievous smile Christine wore every time she served him. The way she had managed to worm her presence into his life was maddening.

"No, thank you," the boy replied, stirring the fire with a poker. "Will you need me tomorrow after Mr. Hamilton's delivery?"

"No! After tomorrow morning I do_ not_want you to set foot near this place! This is very important, James. It will be very dangerous! Swear to me you won't disobey!"

"I promise," James said with a smile. "I could help you, you know. I have some ideas of my own—"

"I know. That's why I want you to go to Christine. You can take Red tomorrow afternoon—"

"You want me to leave, too? I thought I would stay with you," James interrupted him, standing up. "I am not a child! I thought you trusted me…" His voice trailed off, the disappointment in his face obvious. It wasn't the first time this day Erik had felt like a villain.

He sat in the armchair, absentmindedly looking at the blazing fire. Watching Christine leave had probably been the most difficult thing he had done in his life. He hadn't even had the heart to escort her to the cart, afraid he would change his mind.

"I trust you, James. I would trust you with my life. That's why I want you to be with Christine. If we didn't need to continue the façade that the women are still at the Red Door Cottage into tomorrow morning…we need to give them some time, but after Saturday, none of this will matter." He watched the way the amber liquid trapped the firelight.  
"I need to know you'll be with her in case something goes wrong."

"You mean in case you don't make it?" James' voice was stern and serious. Erik looked into his eyes, wondering when the grungy little freckle-faced boy had turned into this collected young man. He smiled at him with pride.

"I didn't say that, but it is important to have all possibilities covered. It provides confidence, and keeps the mind clear and focused," Erik offered as if they were in a lesson.

James nodded in agreement, obviously seeing his point. "What about Christine? You promised her…" His voice faded away.

Erik smiled bitterly. He had given many vows this day. A log crackled in the fireplace, producing an eerie sound as it broke, sending a spray of sparks towards the chimney.  
"Christine knows I was never good at keeping my promises."

II II II

Emily was certain her pounding heart could be heard by the horseman, betraying her presence in the cart. She risked a glance from under her blanket, and her throat tightened as she saw the large mount trotting towards them, the rider too anxious to wait in place. He wasn't wearing a hat, and along with his dark stallion, he provided a ghost-like figure that sent a shiver through her. Robert murmured something, but the wind muffled his words. The rider had now passed beyond Robert and was looming right over her.

"Emily, Christine? I think congratulations are—"

"Who is it?" Emily asked, her voice sounding more fearless than she felt.

"_Deus ex machina_!" A familiar deep voice with the faintest hint of a chuckle replied in its habitual accent. Alexander Arnaud dismounted and, without hesitation or asking for permission, he lifted her up, and as he helped her get to her feet, he whispered in her ear so she could hear him through the bitingly cold wind. "Didn't I promise you nothing would happen to you or your baby?"

"But…how…?"

"We will talk later—"

Emily opened her mouth to ask a question, but his gaze was fixed on the cart. "Where is Christine?" His tone was rough as he regarded the empty space before him.

"She's not with us…" Emily muttered, feeling her heart sink, seeing him scowl as comprehension dawned. "She has left. She's going back to Erik." His frown became deeper, his brows one undivided dark line over his narrowing eyes.

"Why didn't you stop her?" he asked, puzzled.

"He shouldn't be left alone," Emily whispered pathetically. His stare on her was penetrating as he listened to her words with difficulty. Alex looked at her gravely for a while as if she had revealed a secret not even she herself knew.

"Erik trusted Christine with you, and you let her leave?" He was addressing Robert, who had joined them. Emily bent her head, biting her lower lip as she absorbed the situation.

"I tried to talk her out of it—" Robert's voice trailed off under the weight of his guilt.

"Obviously you didn't try hard enough! How long ago did she leave?"

"Maybe half an hour…we could go back and fetch her—" Robert offered miserably.

"She could be at the Twin House now," Emily said, but even she could hear the doubt in her voice. "Perhaps we _should _go back—"

"No!" Alex exclaimed in barely restrained anger. "I won't risk falling into one of Erik's traps only to endanger you, too. We will go along with the plan for now until you are out of harm's way, and then I'll see what I can do." He had started walking towards the tree, where the lantern was still swinging and bobbing with the wind. "Bring the cart over here," he ordered Robert less than politely, with Emily struggling to keep up with his angry, uneven strides a few steps behind him.

With her glance focused on the light, Emily at first missed the closed carriage which waited for them at the turn of the road, completely hidden behind the trees.

"Is this for us?"

"Do you think Erik would let you travel all the way to Whitfield in this cart? The poor horse would die in the process!"

Emily's gaze took in the deep green lustrous color of the brougham drawn by two powerful black horses. They looked fresh and ready to get moving. The carriage's windows and fittings gleamed in the dull lamplight. This light means of transport seemed fast and reliable for a journey, but too luxurious to remain unnoticed. A cart, on the other hand…obviously, Erik had considered every detail in his plan to secure their way to safety, and Emily felt guilt sting her.

In a mercurial change of mood, Alex turned to her with a smile on his face.

"Emily, let me introduce you to Monsieur Gérôme Aristeid. The man and his wife Galatea practically reared me."

Emily smiled shakily at the white-haired man with the elegant beard who had appeared and now bowed his head in response. The man acknowledged Robert with a nod, and despite his age, climbed swiftly onto the box.

"There is no one I could trust more," Alex murmured as he helped her climb into the brougham.

Emily gasped at the sight of the soft leather and velvet in the interior, which was all illuminated by lanterns.

"It is a custom-made, brougham-style carriage, but it has more of a Dormeuse-like interior. Make yourselves comfortable," he offered, showing her the way the seat cushions could be arranged to allow the passenger to sleep at full length.

Emily watched him as he went to help Robert carry her trunk, and arranged the cushions to accommodate her aching back. She felt quite self-conscious about raising her feet, but if they were going to have a long journey, she would not have another choice. In a matter of minutes, the two men had joined her inside the carriage, and compared to the previous trip on the cart, it now felt as though they were gliding down the road.

"What about the cart…and your horse? Will you leave him?" Emily asked, trying to steal a glance out the side windows.

"We are just outside Swindon. Someone will find the cart in the morning…" Alex offered with indifference, shrugging his shoulders, "and Mercury would follow me to the ends of the earth." His smile was genuine, softening his rugged features.

"How did you know we were coming?" Robert's stern, almost suspicious tone erased the smile from Alex's face.

"I guess I owe you an apology for the terrible scene Erik and I enacted during your visit to Emily. We decided that if Erik appeared to have no help from an outsider like me, he would look less dangerous to whoever has been watching him, and he didn't want to provoke any further _action _from them. His house has been full of people these days, so the news of our rift was sure to spread easily." Alexander stretched his bad leg and grimaced. "When I left, I went to my house, and then straight to Dover as if I were indeed going to France. It was easy to trick the man following me." An arrogant half-smile formed on his face. "I went to Gérôme's cottage. He helped me with the details, and for the last ten nights, we've been waiting for you. There was no other way for Erik to let me know of your arrival without the risk of raising suspicions."

"So what you said then—?" Emily asked in a faint voice, shifting in her seat beside Robert.

"I was very harsh and inexcusably rude. I apologize for my tone."

Emily watched Robert furrow his brown brows; he clenched and unclenched his fists against his trousers. It hadn't escaped him, either, that Alex had only apologized for his _tone_. She felt her cheeks grow hot as her ire began to rise. She couldn't believe the nerve of the man!

"Did you two get married?" Alex asked in mock innocence, seeing her distress.  
Emily frowned, letting her silence answer his question. Her stare on him was hard, reprimanding.  
"Then I don't have _a lot _to apologize for," he replied, the edge of his mouth curving derisively. His unyielding gaze continued fixed on Robert before he finally leaned back against the velvety surface of the suede cushion and closed his eyes.

Robert snorted beside her, tension washing over him with every breath he took.

II II II

"Why are we turning here?" Christine asked as she saw Red Door Cottage's lights becoming smaller. She shifted, grasping the railing beside her, putting more distance between herself and Mr. Hamilton.

"The lane gets too narrow for the cart in half a mile. This is the safest way to the Twin House. Didn't you say Monsieur Rochelle would be at the Twin House by now?"

Christine nodded. Her stomach tightened, and for the life of her, she wasn't sure whether it was because of the prospect of facing Erik's wrath and disappointment or for another reason she couldn't comprehend yet.

Was she such a coward that she needed Mr. Hamilton's presence to diminish Erik's fury at her ruining his plans? No! No matter how angry he would be with her, Christine was certain that a part of him would be pleased to see her. She wasn't worried about plans, either. Past experience showed that Erik had always been good at improvisation.

Why did she feel that strange, different sense of anxiety filling her?  
It was just a matter of her being practical. Why _walk _the extra forty minutes to the Twin House when Mr. Hamilton could help her see Erik sooner?

Still, it seemed to her that the diminishing lights of the Red Door Cottage were beacons of safety, and she was slowly drifting away from them.  
"Mr. Hamilton, I've changed my mind. Please stop the cart. I will walk to the Red Door Cottage—"

"I can't let you do that, Madame Giry! A woman walking alone in the night…we are ten minutes away… from the Twin House—" Mr. Hamilton offered in that usual manner of his, dividing his sentences into fragments.

"I prefer to walk to the Red Door Cottage. It's so close, and Emily will be worried if she doesn't see me soon. I insist…" Her voice faded as she felt his hand, heavy on her shoulder, as he pushed back the hood of her cloak to have a clear view of her eyes.

"You know you are in no position to insist on anything right now…my dear Madame Giry. Or should I say, _Countess de Chagny_?"

II II II

Alexander Arnaud opened his eyes and consulted his watch, removing it from his waistcoat pocket. He knocked lightly on the front window and mouthed a question to Monsieur Gérôme. Having received a similarly unspoken answer, he straightened himself in his seat opposite Robert and Emily and focused his gaze on the carpeted floor of the carriage, as if making mental calculations.

Emily noticed the dark circles under his eyes. He had been waiting for ten nights in a row in the late autumn cold and rain for nothing! Christine was gone, and _she_had let it happen. Erik would be absolutely furious with her, and she couldn't blame him.

She clasped her hands on her midsection, taking some consolation from the faint kick she felt. For the last half hour, she had been leaning against Robert's shoulder, his strong arm holding her protectively against his body as they whispered trivial things to each other and mooted possible names for their baby. When Alexander had begun to stir, Robert had removed his arm, leaving her feeling cold.

She eyed the man sitting opposite them in doubt. More than once, she had suspected he was faking sleep. His eyelashes had seemed to flutter every time Robert offered a silly, exotic name he had heard during his trips, and she could swear she had seen his upper lip curl slightly upwards when she had confided to Robert that she thought she was expecting a boy.

Whatever the case was, Alexander's brief sleep had provided a much appreciated sense of privacy in their confined space, and now Emily felt herself yawning, the weariness of the day catching up with her.

II II II

"What is the plan for our trip?" Robert's hard tone as he spoke to Arnaud awakened Emily. She opened her eyes, fully alert, looking at the two men who stared at each other, exchanging glances of equal challenge.

"The plan_ was_ to travel through Reading and Basingstoke to a remote cottage on the outskirts of Whitfield and wait for Erik to join us. Galatea – Gérôme's wife—has prepared the house. The distance is longer, but the road is far better than the one crossing Wiltshire. _Now_, you will go through Hungerford and Whitchurch. By late morning, you will be at Whitfield. The road has many potholes and bumps. It will force a slower speed, and it won't be as comfortable, but it is the quickest way possible, and there is less chance of your meeting anyone. If you do," Alex looked at them both in turn, "say you are guests of Lady Arnaud, and that you are going to her estate at Winchester."

"What are you going to do?" Emily asked guardedly.

"When we reach Hungerford, in less than an hour, I will take Mercury and go back."

"To the Twin House?" Robert asked.

"I think I have already made it clear that that would be a waste of time. If Christine has gone there safely, Erik will be all she needs. I won't risk interfering with his plans."

"Then…?" Robert's stern voice forced an answer.

"I will just go check something," Alex replied elusively. "If anything went wrong, I don't think there is a lot we can do but hope."

Emily felt a heavy burden on her shoulders again. Guilt mixed with dread, and the terrible feeling that had haunted her since morning. What was the right thing to do?

"I will go with you!" Robert's decisive tone cut the silence in half.

"_You _will stay with Emily. You'll see that she and your child arrive safely at the cottage and wait for us there."

"There is no way I could live with myself or face Monsieur Rochelle again after letting Christine go. I'll join you. It's not that you won't need me!" Robert threw a brief look at Alexander's bad knee, making his point.

Alexander's face turned red, and he moved his outstretched knee, bending it beside his other leg, turning pale in the process.

"Mr. Duggan, if you have the _slightest _sense of priorities, you will stay with your fiancée." His voice was low. Whether it was out of pain or anger, Emily didn't know.

"I could stay at an inn in Hungerford, while you two—" she offered faintly.

"Are you in your right mind, woman? Are we going to leave a pregnant lady out in the middle of nowhere—?" Alex exclaimed, the tension in the carriage rising by the second.

"Don't you dare speak to her like that!" Robert muttered through his teeth. "Of course that is out of question, Em!" He turned to her, his cobalt blue eyes burning, and then back to Arnaud. "If you intended to go back, why didn't you leave immediately?"

Surprisingly enough, Alex was looking at him with what seemed a newfound respect.

"I wanted to make sure you would have no trouble, that no one stopped you. Every mile you cover to move away from Swindon counts. Mercury is fast and will cover the distance three times faster than this carriage. I'll be back in less than 45 minutes. You do realize I may be on a wild-goose chase," Alex offered, to ease their worries away.

"The only solution I see is for me to fetch a horse at Hungerford and join you. What ever happens, two men will be better than one," Robert concluded in a matter-of-fact manner that made Emily focus her gaze on him.

Every time she saw him, she saw her childhood friend, the boy who had played with her, pulling her braids; and then Robbie, the lad who had left her to seek a career, or the dream she had left behind to seek safety in a miserable marriage, and, lately, her hope for happiness and family. He knew that, and he seemed happy she could see the 17-year-old young man in his eyes every time he talked. There were few moments—moments like this one—in which Emily could truly glimpse the man Robert had become. The passing years had molded both of them, and their new shapes would have to be discovered inch by inch. She liked this new, decisive man she was discovering, and wondered what he saw in her after so many years. Maybe they could finally forgive each other the mistakes of the past and claim the amount of happiness they deserved.

Then why did Emily still feel such heaviness in her heart? The same cloud of foreboding was hovering over her as the men kept talking. Alex's attempts to change Robert's mind were losing their impetus. He looked tired and resigned to Robert's determination to make his previous mistake right. A chill ran down her spine at the thought. Maybe that was Robert's nature….

Emily was drawn from her reverie as the carriage halted to a stop. She looked at the two men, wondering how it was that men looked so alike in situations such as this. Their features were as different as night and day, but their expression was the same: focused determination evident in the hard set of their jaws, their lips tight in a firm line, their previous animosity turned to an easy camaraderie.

"We are just outside Hungerford," Alex offered, seeing her confused stare.

"Mercury can carry both of us until I find a horse there," Robert completed the explanation.

"This is goodbye, then," Emily muttered to herself.

"Nonsense, Em! Don't start with this again! You are the one who always said we should have faith, and everything happens for a reason…" Robbie reminded her, as Alex was climbing out of the carriage, his cane in hand. Robert brushed her lips gently with his mouth, his whiskers feeling unfamiliar on her skin. She had so many little things to get used to, she thought, smiling for the first time.

"Please help me out, Robbie. Just for a couple of minutes. I fear my feet will get numb…"

Emily drew a deep breath of cold air, clearing her lungs and her mind. Erik would be very harsh if he knew she had let her silly intuitions worry her so much. She sighed, composing herself.

"We are running out of time…I'll leave you to say your farewells," Alex said, glancing at Robert, who was standing a few feet away near Mercury. "Remember! If anyone asks, you are going to Winchester—"

"To Lady Arnaud's estate," Emily completed his sentence, "I remember. Alexander…"  
Her voice faded. She turned her head, regretting what she had started to say.

"What is it? What is worrying you, Emily?" He gently placed a finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him. She watched him withdraw his hand, and, clasping his cane with both hands, he bent a little towards her. "You know you can tell me," he said in a conspiratorial tone.

Surprisingly, she realized she could share her fears with him. She didn't know whether it was because of his Eastern origin, but she felt he wouldn't mock her or get frustrated with her.

"I have had a bad feeling about this, a premonition, a fear that something bad will happen, or has already happened…I know I'm driving everyone out of their minds. I think it's my fault Christine left—" Emily said in one breath.

"Christine is an adult. She is the only one responsible for her choices. This is no one's fault!" Alex offered pragmatically. "Is this the first time you've been having this feeling?" he asked after a few moments of thinking.

She nodded, amazed she hadn't thought about this before. So many deaths in her life, so much bad news…she had never had a premonition warning her of any of the disasters that had changed her life forever.  
What was different this time? She cupped her swollen belly in the protective manner that had become her habit lately. Maybe she was just silly after all. Now, watching him run his palm slowly along his strong jaw, she wished she could erase the crease on his forehead. Maybe everyone would be all right, and she was being driven by her condition and the constant little fears it evoked.

A smile formed on his face but didn't reach his eyes as Alex pushed a long, loose strand of raven hair behind his ear.

"It's all a matter of patience, then. We will see if Emily Millen is a little Cassandra."

* * *

_Deus ex machina _: god who resolves plot: in ancient Greek and Roman theatre, a god introduced to resolve a complicated plot.

_Cassandra_: ignored prophet of doom. Somebody whose warnings of impending disaster are ignored.


	37. Introductions

Greetings to all!

It's a cloudy Monday in my part of the planet and I'd love to see some sunshine… (I'm giving orders to the weather now; my condition is critical!)

After thanking Desiree and TOWDNWTBN for their efforts and before thanking you for reading and reviewing I feel I have to say something:

Well, the fact that this story is close to its end is no secret I guess (three more chapters to go not counting this one) so I want to thank you, all, for the good company in that beautiful journey. I had doubts about posting it but I was just silly...

Thank you for reading and reviewing! Have a nice week!

* * *

**Chapter 37- Introductions **

In spite of the cold wind whipping them on the cart, Christine felt herself breaking out into a cold sweat. She clasped her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking.

"I don't understand…I don't know what you are talking about," she retorted, summoning up her courage and all her acting skills.

"Aren't you the Countess de Chagny, also known as Christine Giry, even though your maiden name was Christine Daaé?" Mr. Hamilton asked in an unrelenting, mocking tone, his hand moving from her shoulder, grabbing the nape of her neck, and tilting her head backwards. She flinched in pain, feeling his nails digging into her flesh. "So many names…" he scorned her, "_you _ought to be the Phantom!"

Christine's eyes grew wide. She tried to shake away his hand, but he grabbed a handful of hair, laughing at the shocked expression on her face. She could almost hear the wild beat of her pulse, her heart thundering violently against her ribs. She could try to hide the pain his firm grip was causing her, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't shake the surprise from her face.

"Mr. Hamilton…_Daniel_…please…let me go," she pleaded faintly, miserably, feeling ashamed of herself. A single tear ran down her cheek.

He shook her as if shaking a rag doll, back and forth, again and again, amused by her lack of resistance, by his own strength over her. His harsh laugh reached her ears as more tears stung her eyes. How could she let this happen to her? How could she do this to Erik?

He bared his teeth in something that was supposed to be a smile, and only then did it occur to her that she had never seen Daniel Hamilton laugh or genuinely smile. How could she have trusted a man who never laughed? How could she have thought he was nothing but a poor man intimidated by Erik's powerful presence?

This was a man hungry for the power other people's weakness made him feel. That was what fed him. He had no pity. There was no compassion in his cold stare. He didn't talk, he just looked at her, holding her tight, laughing with that grimace of his that probably qualified as a smile.

With something like an instinct, like a well of desperation drawn out of her helplessness, Christine suddenly shoved him with her hands, her legs, with all the strength she could muster.  
More out of surprise than anything, he fell back, letting her free herself from his steely grip on her hair. She abruptly turned her back to him, and without a second glance, she jumped out of the cart, landing hard on the ground. She cursed her long traveling dress, which slowed her down as she tried to get to her feet and run. Her scratched knees and palms didn't hurt at all. An unknown power filled her as she ran, faster than she had ever run before, her pace quicker than she had ever thought possible.

When he grabbed the back of her dress and pulled her backwards, she felt as if someone had taken the ground from under her feet. Christine fell down, her hairpins digging so deeply into her skull that her eyes filled with tears. The smell of the wet soil invaded her dazed senses as he dragged her across the ground, getting a grip on her arm. Her hair, the long braid she had made Erik plait that very afternoon, torturing him with her love, was coming loose.

Her surprise dissolving, Christine felt real, hot-blooded fury against this man who thought he could play with their lives, make them run, destroy them…she kicked his shanks with her heels, bringing him down to the ground. She struggled and fought him with all her strength, not knowing if she did hit him, but afraid that if she stopped, she would collapse.

Christine's sight blurred the first time his open palm struck her face. The second time, she almost fainted. Blinking, she hardly felt him pulling her from the ground and dragging her roughly to the cart. She tried to push his hands away from her body as he tried to lift her, her strength betraying her. Christine forced herself to open her eyes, to stay conscious, hot tears running down her cheeks now that she couldn't run anymore. From the corner of her heavy-lidded eyes, she caught a glimpse of the lights at the Red Door Cottage. No one could hear her cries.

With all the strength she had left, she scratched his neck with her nails. He drew back, but he wasn't surprised this time. He slammed her head against the cart, the blow leaving her breathless. Blood streamed down her neck. Her hand traced a deep cut on her ear. She narrowed her eyes as the dark colors of the night blurred before her, the borders of the shapes blending together into one smudgy image. Christine heard herself moan, and drifted into unconsciousness.

II II II

"Where are we going from here?" Robert shouted so that the man riding a few feet ahead of him could hear. The crossroad signalled the road to Swindon.

Alex reined Mercury in to wait for Robert's horse to reach him.

"Are we going to Swindon?"

"I doubt '_Salubritas et Industria' _would be much of a help in our case!" Alex muttered as Mercury made an impatient circle around himself, protesting the halt. "'_Health and industry,'_ that is the Swindonians' motto," he explained, seeing the man frown. "We will stay on this road for a couple of miles, and then we'll enter the forest. I don't think it would be wise for us to be seen on the road to the village," he offered in thorough explanation to erase the displeased expression from the Welshman's face.  
Regarding his effort as more than enough, he flicked the reins and let Mercury gallop now that he had the chance.

II II II

Christine's eyes fluttered as the raindrops created small streams on her face and neck. She tried to bring a hand to her swollen lip. In vain! She was tied up, the rope pressing roughly against the tender skin of her wrists, its end tied with a knot somewhere in the cart where she couldn't see. The back of her neck was hurting. Every bump on the road felt like a hammer hitting her head.

When the cart finally stopped, she winced and protested as Daniel Hamilton unceremoniously dragged her from the back. She almost tripped and stumbled on the torn hem of her dress, but the man kept pushing her until they reached a short wooden door. Wrapping her braid around his hand like a peculiar bracelet, he opened the door and shoved her hard against the stone floor.

The room was dimly lit, illuminated by a lantern and a struggling fire. Still, they were enough for her to get a good look at the state she was in. With her traveling cloak soaked in dirt and mud, her palms scratched and bloodied, and her dress torn, leaving parts of her skirt crawling behind her like dead animals, she didn't dare to think of her face! Real bride material!

She laughed at the thought, wondering whether that was how hysterical women felt before a seizure. Only then did she notice the face of a man who looked almost as stunned as she had been earlier that night, as miserable as she was now, staring back at her, horrified surprise marking his features.

"What the _hell _have you done?" the man asked, without really expecting an answer to what seemed painfully obvious. A plethora of different emotions flitted across his face as he changed colors. Surprise, disbelief, disgust, fear.

"Have you completely lost your mind? What were you thinking?"

"I've just secured our transaction." Hamilton bared his teeth in that peculiar smile of his, clearly satisfied with himself.

Christine pushed herself against the wall and drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The man with the thick moustache rose from his seat and looked from her to Hamilton's disheveled state.

"In God's name, she is only a woman!" The previous disgust appeared once more on his face. Christine felt she might have some hope with this man.

"Please, sir, let me go back to Erik—" she started in French, having noticed the man's accent.

"One more word and I'll gag you!" Hamilton warned her, kicking a chair towards her.

The Frenchman ran two hands through his hair and sighed heavily. Beads of sweat started to form on his forehead. He turned to the long wooden table and gulped his wine in one mouthful.

"You fool! You couldn't restrain yourself!" the man yelled at Hamilton, his face red with anger. "I told François you are nothing but trouble! Now the only thing we can do is prepare for a hasty retreat!"

"What are you talking about? He doesn't know about us—"

"And how difficult will it be for him to find out? That is the only thing I've warned you about! Don't toy with this man. Don't infuriate him! And what do you do?" The Frenchman started pacing around the room. "Now he'll be after us like a wild animal! You can't even comprehend what he's capable of—"

"What are you talking about? We won't abandon a plan we've spent so much time constructing! I won't let that happen." Hamilton waved his hand as if dismissing a ridiculous idea.

"Are you a complete idiot? _You _planned this? François was crazy enough to trust you –"

"If it weren't for _me_, you'd still be watching that Italian merchant who only has half the money we will get here!"

"Haven't you heard a word of what I said? He will hunt us down! One by one! The game is over!"

"I am not afraid of him! I am a hunter and a good one—"

"This is not a hunting expedition, you imbecile!" the Frenchman exclaimed, and let himself sink into a chair.

"I've played him like a puppet, and he didn't even suspect anything! I've got him exactly where I want him to be…I won't hold back now…if you don't have the stomach for this…"

"You are insane, and the worst part is that you'll bring us all down with you."

"He has fed you a legend… and you've believed him, Donatien! Or perhaps you'd prefer for me to call you _Robur_? I heard you in the church! I heard the fascination in your voice. You admire him!"

"I respect him! You will get us all killed," Donatien whispered more to himself, his hands on his face.

"Don't worry so much…if he is such a genius, you can't trust that he would give us the money… without some kind of leverage on our side. And if he is not…you have nothing to worry about!" Hamilton mocked him. "We can ask your brother when he graces us with his presence!"

"You know he is trailing the money! It will be too late when he comes."

"I will fix this, Donatien. You can always leave…if you are afraid. It's not as if you are irreplaceable." Hamilton's voice was hard.

The Frenchman threw a wild glance at him, biting his lips under his moustache.

"Where are the men?" Hamilton asked, walking towards Christine.

"Gilles is watching the Red Door Cottage, and Gaetan's at the Twin House. Jacob is sleeping next door. He'll replace Gilles in the morning."

Christine's heart sank at hearing Jacob's name.

"Jacob?" she asked in a pitiful voice.

"We lost some good men because of Monsieur Rochelle last month…we had to replace them…and Jacob seemed so _eager _when he heard what all this was about," Hamilton offered, baring his teeth in a smile.

Grabbing her by the arm, he lifted her up. They exited the room as Christine glanced over her shoulder to the place where Donatien was sitting. He wasn't even looking at her.

As Hamilton pushed her against a slightly open door into a cold room, the awful odor assaulting her made her dizzy. He had to shake her to keep her walking. The lantern in his other hand illuminated a horrid place. Tables and tall benches were attached to the walls of the room, knives and cleavers on them as if ready for use. Christine shivered at the outline of Jacob's huge body as he slept, snoring, on a row of tables.

"Erik will kill you when he hears about this," she whispered to Hamilton, surprised by the wicked satisfaction she heard in her voice.

Hamilton threw her one of his smiles, placing the lantern on a table.

"And who is going to tell him?" he asked through his teeth. "Anyway, you're doing me a favor! A man with nothing to lose is a man with nothing to worry about!"

Dragging her to a bench, he pushed her head hard against the rough surface of the dirty wood. Holding her by the neck, her cheek flat on the bench, he moved his palm to her shoulder, oblivious to her sobs.

"Your skin is so tender…such a pity…no point in crying anymore, Countess," his icy voice mocked her.

Christine tried to turn to see what he was doing behind her back, but he pushed her head back into place. In the glinting surface of a butcher's knife dug deep into the wooden bench, Christine caught a glimpse of what Hamilton was holding. It was a cleaver. Feeling Daniel Hamilton raising his hand, she shut her eyes hard, murmuring a prayer.

II II II

"Are you sure we are going the right way?" Robert asked, dismounting. "I think we were going in circles."

"I _know _we are going in circles! We had to find the stream running through this area to have a real chance of finding our destination. Keep moving! And keep your eyes and ears open! We may be close."

"_May _be close?"

"It's not as if I have a map! I think I recognized a landmark I saw when I found the place."

"What does this cabin look like?"

"A wreck, really. I don't know its previous use, but there was a wooden structure attached to it, and it looked very much like the abattoir Erik described." Alexander avoided adding that the relatively recent bloodstains he had seen convinced him he had found the place.

"A slaughterhouse? He was held there? How on earth did you find it?"

"He gave me all the details he remembered of the landscape and the surrounding area. We more or less estimated the distance he could have covered on foot when he escaped. For the last ten days, I've gone through that area…with Mercury, of course…" He shrugged his shoulders, throwing a glance at the horses they had left tied and forcing himself to keep a steady pace beside Robert. He'd be damned if he let his leg prove him a cripple.

"What do you think we'll find there?"

"Hopefully nothing! If we are lucky, and the gods favor us tonight, the abattoir will be empty as it was when I found it in the first place. Christine will be safe with Erik. Erik will be angry with her— _I _am angry with her right now! — and dawn will find us soaked and tired! Sometimes, I think I'm getting too old for all this," he muttered though gritted teeth.

"You know…I _will _marry Emily," Robert said after a few minutes of fast, silent walking.

"You'd better!" Alex retorted, but there was no hostility in his voice.

"I have a surprise wedding arranged for her back in our village…with all her childhood friends. Everything is planned." His expression was that of a man who had accomplished a small miracle.

"Has it occurred to you that, at this point, what Emily needs the most is a sense of security? I think, more than anything, you owe _that _to her."

"It has been hard for me to trust her, hard for me to understand her actions." Robert removed his hat and ran a shaking hand through his hair and over his face. "Do you know she betrayed me in the first place? She married an old man for his money. She couldn't wait for me—"

Alex nodded. Clearly, the past was still eating at the man. They walked in an awkward silence. Was there anything more painful than a woman's betrayal? How could a man trust himself if he could not trust the woman he'd chosen?

"Still…if I were in your shoes, I wouldn't dare surprise her," Alex said after a while.  
"Women have weird notions about their wedding day."

"Do you think she would be disappointed? I thought this would please her…" Uncertainty had crawled into Robert's voice.

Alex doubted Emily would appreciate an audience at her wedding while she was so clearly expecting a baby. Robert was obviously fighting to turn back the clock, but for once, Alex decided to keep his mouth shut. Who was he to interfere with a couple's decisions? Why did he even care? Still, it felt so hard to picture Emily as a greedy woman who would marry someone for his money. Frustrating and somehow painful, in an unclear, vague way…

"Look!"

Alex raised his eyes to the point Robert was indicating. At first, he had difficulty seeing, but then, after a moment, he managed to catch a glimpse of some light flickering faintly through what could be a window. Robert must have the eyes of a hawk to have spotted that! Balancing between relief that they had finally found the cabin and disappointment at realizing that someone was indeed in that wretched place, Alex kept on walking at a faster pace, his hand gripping his cane decisively. From the corner of his eye, he stole a glance at the man who, adjusting his pace to his own, was walking beside him. Robert seemed deep in thought.

"Do you think women are as complex as men? The same complicated feelings, complicated thoughts? Not just about marriage and children…" Robert muttered, more to himself.

At that moment, walking in pain under the continuous, annoying drizzle, Alexander had an epiphany! Maybe the perplexing life he used to consider a curse cast upon him, the choices made by him and for him years ago that forbade him to seek an ordinary life, a woman to love, a family of his own…maybe all these were nothing but blessings in disguise, defenses against the kind of anguish this man felt for the love of a woman. Maybe in a way, he had been saved, spared from the torture and the doubt.

"I will deny ever having said this," Alex said with a chuckle, feeling his spirit lifted by his recent realization, "but I believe women are even more complicated than men. Maybe that is their weakness, even their major flaw! Could you ever have imagined that while you were sailing around the world, your housekeeper fiancée would be in the middle of such an unbelievable situation? I bet you thought you were the only one living adventurously!"

II II II

"Okay, what's next?" Robert asked when the two men were only a few yards from the cabin.

They had already walked in circles around the area, found one horse tied to a tree nearby, and through some chinks in the walls of the cabin, had taken short peeks at the man sitting in a chair and drinking within.

Impatience was now evident in Robert's posture as he stood up again and kicked a rock with his boot. He had dropped to his haunches, crouching before the roots of the tree Alex was sitting on to stretch his hurt knee.

"We should wait and watch for anything suspicious…imagine if_ we _were to ruin everything. If we survived it, Erik would no doubt kill us," Alex sighed.

They hadn't risked entering the dark abattoir, afraid the noise would alarm the man. The room seemed empty otherwise, as no sound had been heard every time they had silently walked along its walls to take a better look at the man with the thick moustache. On the other hand, he seemed alarmingly nervous as he paced around the room, drinking a ruby red wine from a crystal glass, absolutely unfitting for the dismal surroundings.

Alex's reasoning instructed him to stay put. His instinct disagreed. He wondered whether it was the excruciating pain in his leg, the now heavily pouring rain, or his own impatience which guided his instinct. Or maybe it was Emily's words lurking in the back of his mind, her premonition that something bad was happening or already had happened that urged him to act. He didn't know, and as time went by in an agonizingly slow manner, he realized it didn't really matter what his instinct was made up of.

He used his cane to fully support his weight as he stood up.

"I am paying the man a visit," he announced. Robert, who had had his eyes locked on the cabin, turned to face him.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll improvise." Alex shrugged his shoulders.

"Why don't we both go?"

"You will be our secret card."

"Why don't _I _go?" Robert pressed.

"I would seem less of a threat—" He waved his cane.

"I think_ I _should go," Robert said decisively.

Alex opened the wooden case he had been carrying since he had left Mercury, which he had placed on a low branch. The ivory grips of the double-barreled traveling pistols shone under the moonlight. He took one in hand and placed the other in Robert's open palm.

"Webley & Scott!" He pointed at the manufacturer's label. "I bought them a couple of years ago during a trip to Birmingham. It is rumored they are this close to a great deal with the British Army. If that happens, civilians may as well forget their services," Alex remarked grimly. If Emily and her baby weren't reason enough for Robert…

They both reached the cabin silently. Alex had turned to start walking when he heard Robert's whisper behind him.

"Have you killed a man before?" His voice was hollow.

"Not this way." Alex's answer was barely audible. He walked around the cabin and drew a deep breath before pushing the door open. It hit the wall, producing a thud.

"Good evening!" he greeted the surprised man before him. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Alexander Arnaud."


	38. The Darkest Hour

Greetings to all this Monday!

Thank you for reading and reviewing this story. Hugs! :-)

Once more, I have to say that Desiree and TOWDNWTBN are amazing for their hard work. Thank you, girls!

I wish you all a nice, easy and uncomplicated week.

And before I forget: Don't hate me!

* * *

**Chapter 38-The Darkest Hour**

Seeing Alexander, the man with the thick moustache abruptly stood up, setting his chair off balance. The old piece of furniture fought for a while, oscillating in mid-air, challenging gravity, before it fell back, making an awkward sound. Alexander took in the poor surroundings of the room in one glance, including the man staring at him, still holding a glass of wine in hand, too dumbfounded to decide whether to keep it or exchange it for his sword, which was lying on the wooden table in its steel scabbard.

Alex waved his pistol about in a seemingly careless manner, never pointing directly at the man, yet effectively indicating the futility of any thought of retrieving or trying to use the sword. Wisely enough, the man drank a sip of his wine and sat down on another chair.

"I should like to offer you some wine, but I'm afraid I have no glass," the Frenchman said, looking more relaxed now.

"Although I always appreciate a glass of Château Haut-Brion," Alex offered, raising a brow at the sight of such an expensive wine in such a place, "I should have to decline." He walked slowly to the table. "A very fine sword, indeed." He admired the elaborate brass hilt, moving the sword out of the man's reach. "I must compliment you on your—"

Both men turned their heads in the same direction as a single shot shattered the silence. Alexander threw the Frenchman's sword to the ground as another shot was heard, and then another.

II II II

"Jamie, wake up!" Erik whispered softly into the boy's ear. The boy stirred, and turned to the other side, annoyed by the disturbance.  
"James!" Erik allowed some of the urgency of the moment to permeate his voice. He didn't want to scare the boy, but they were running out of time. He tapped James' shoulder and left the boy's clothes on the bed so he could start dressing.

"Come on, James! I hadn't realized you were such a heavy sleeper."

"What's wrong?" the boy asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Get dressed. We have company."

"Are you sure it's a bad guy?" a fully-awake, completely dressed James asked after a while, struggling to put on a boot. The boy's words brought a reluctant smile to Erik's face. For James, the line between the good and the bad "guys" was still very solid.

"Quite certain." No "_good guy_" could have set off two different alarms in two different areas of his property around the Twin House at almost the same time.  
"Follow me," he ordered, and started walking at a fast pace toward the stairs.

"Are we leaving through the east wing?" James asked, thrilled by the prospect of seeing the secret project.

"I'm afraid we'll have to skip the grand tour," Erik muttered, removing the key from his neck.

"_You should change that leather string to a silver chain_," Christine had suggested teasingly that very morning, watching him change his silk shirt.

"_Why? Is it going to improve how I look?" _he had teased back. She had answered. She had teased him, tempted him, aroused him and reprimanded him at the same time, as she alone was able to do. Erik sent the images away; they were too private to even recall in front of others.

He stole a glance at James, who was following him, obviously trying to tame his curiosity.

"Remember the tree branch that keeps breaking the parlor's upper window?" He asked urgently, drawing the boy's attention from the corridor's decoration.  
James nodded, looking into the music room through the half closed door.

Erik opened the last window at the end of the corridor, letting the wind and the rain in. He placed his hands on the boy's shoulders, his serious stare meeting those intelligent green eyes.

"James, I need you to jump from this window onto the branch. It's not too high, but you must be careful! And as silent as possible!"

The boy nodded.

"I need you to go to Highworth—"

"Shall I take Red first—?"

"No! We don't know what's happening at the Red Door Cottage right now. I'm afraid you'll have to walk the six miles." Thinking of that, he left the boy, only to come back with a coat in his hands. "Wear this. It's heavy, but it will protect you from the rain. Throw it away before entering the village," he advised, looking at the bizarre sight; the expensive coat was obviously too big for James. He wouldn't risk anyone thinking the boy had stolen it.

"Go to Father Michael. Ask him to open the letter I gave him this morning." Even _he_ couldn't have predicted this extreme measure of precaution would be needed so soon.  
"There are instructions there for you. Letters, too. Don't stay long. Take the letters, and take the first coach to the address you'll find inside. You'll find Alexander Arnaud and Christine." He would be safe there. "Whatever happens, do not come back." He put a folded piece of leather into the jacket's inner pocket. "Don't show your money to anyone. Don't talk to anyone you don't know."

Thankful for his still-warm hands, Erik couldn't fight the urge to cup the boy's cheek for the briefest of moments. He was so mature for his age, but he looked so small, so fragile…or maybe he couldn't shake away the image he kept of James from when he had first really seen him, playing with a piece of paper in his mother's store.

"I could help…I could go to the tree house, and come back tomorrow, or the day after—"

"No!" Erik exclaimed, impatience lacing his voice. It wasn't the time to see who was more stubborn. "I will meet Alexander in a couple of days anyway, and meet you all at the cottage," he added in a lighter tone to give something to the boy to think about.

James looked at him, his stare steady and challenging, as if trying to estimate his sincerity.

"What are you going to do? You are not prepared—"

Erik smiled, shrugging his shoulders. "I have some ropes to cut," he answered cryptically.

Without a word, James climbed onto the windowsill and stealthily leaped onto the branch.

Erik watched him disappear into the night.

II II II

"You don't know who you are dealing with!" Donatien warned Alex through gritted teeth, but he kept walking towards the abattoir and the direction from which the shots had been heard.

"I fail to feel intimidated by someone who is afraid even to introduce himself," Alex replied, using the pistol in his hand to indicate the door. "Walk!"

"My men will—"

"Your men will face _you _first, so if you want to tell them something…for example, to put their pistols down, or not shoot at you, now is the time."

"No matter what happens to me, _nothing _will change! It can only get worse. You can't imagine how—"

Alex shoved Donatien against the abattoir's door, resisting the urge to respond.

"Jacob, don't shoot! It's me…Donatien!" The Frenchman's lantern rolled to the floor as one more shot was heard from inside. The man named Donatien collapsed at Alex's feet. He turned his face, raising his eyes to Alex as if begging for help.

Alex grabbed him by the collar and dragged him away from the doorway.

"Robert?" he shouted, but received no answer. Who the hell had shot at the Frenchman?

"Who's there? Tell me now, or I'll push you back with your friends."

Donatien moved his hand, which had been firmly pressed against his stomach, to glance at his wound. A small pool of blood was created in a matter of seconds. He cursed and pushed his hand back in place while taking some deep breaths.

"It's Jacob Oliveer…and Christine de Chagny."

Alex ran a hand over his wet hair. Could it get any worse than this? The man on the ground seemed ready to faint. He clasped his throat as if thirsty.

"I should have known…François will—"

"We don't have time for this. Get hold of yourself. Are you sure there is only one man?" Alex asked, helping the Frenchman to lean against the wooden wall.

"One man?" Donatien laughed, despair lacing his cynical tone.

Alex approached the wall near the door again. He opened it slowly with his cane, taking a quick look inside from where he was standing. Christine was sitting on the floor in a remote corner of the room. Robert had crawled to her, leaving a stream of blood behind him. He had placed his body in front of hers to protect her. Alex felt the blood draining from his face at the sight.

"Mr. Oliveer, I see no reason for all this," he managed to say in a deep, calm voice as if talking to a frenzied animal.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the silhouette of a huge man aiming at him. Jacob pulled the pistol's trigger without a moment of doubt or hesitation.

Lunging to Donatien's side, Alex shook the man to consciousness, grabbing his lapels.

"What is this handgun he's got?" Alex asked, disturbed by the fast rate of fire Jacob's pistol demonstrated.

"A Lancaster –" Donatien's voice was barely audible. "Hamilton gave it—"

Hamilton? Alex's eyes grew wide in surprise. He had heard of this kind of improved pepper-box revolver. Alex remembered – now with disgust – the braggart of a British Navy officer who had commended the multi-barreled handgun. In a light tone, he had thoroughly explained the way the heavy lead bullets were ideal for fighting wild tribesmen, as they lodged in the victim's body, bringing him down for good. Alex looked at Donatien's closed eyes. He covered him with his coat and bent down at the level of the man's ear.

"Press your hand harder," he said, noticing the pool getting larger as the Frenchman's strength weakened. He pulled off the man's belt and bound his hand to his torso to keep it on the wound. The man groaned and closed his eyes, his face a grimace of pain. "Stay silent!" Alex ordered.

"I don't appreciate being shot by my own gun, Oliveer!" Alex said loudly but calmly, standing once more against the wall near the abattoir's only door.

"_Your _gun?" Jacob's voice seemed slightly puzzled. Alex decided to consider the temporary ceasefire as a positive sign that he had the man's attention and went on with his improvised tale.

"_I _sold the Lancaster to Hamilton! I work with him. No point in killing your friends along with your enemies, Jacob! It's important that I talk to you—"

"If you're a friend of Hamilton's, come inside…unarmed! If you try anything—"

Alex walked through the door with slow, slightly exaggerated, uneven steps, his cane raised in the air with its tip pointing to the ground, his other hand held palm outward in a gesture of surrender.

Jacob offered a smug smirk at the scarcely threatening image Alex provided.

"_You're _Hamilton's friend?" he asked, amused, staring at his injured leg.

"I didn't say I'm a soldier! I'm a merchant. We work together. There's been a change in plans. The money arrived early. I've come to take you and the girl."

"Hamilton told me to kill everyone by dawn…" Jacob muttered, rubbing his stubble with his large palm. Alex noticed his doubting tone. The hand holding the pistol wasn't so steady anymore.

"By dawn, Jacob! By dawn! It isn't dawn yet! And Donatien is lying dead out there. Hamilton is expecting the money this very moment. How on earth is he going to explain this? Imagine if François…if they ask to see the girl—"

Alex hoped the man was no smarter than he appeared, and he dared a neutral glance towards Christine. He narrowed his eyes to control his expression. She was gagged, her eyes wide open like two huge black holes in her pale face, her stare as intense as a madwoman's.

"That man tried to kill me," Jacob accused, the Lancaster now pointing at Robert.

"Nonsense! He didn't know it was you! Did you identify yourself? Did you tell him exactly who you are?" Alex hurled more questions at Jacob to increase his bewilderment.

"I just—" Jacob waved the hand which held the pistol, and Alex knew this was his only chance. Even an imbecile like Jacob would start to question _this _story. He grabbed his cane with both hands, and raising it in the air like a bat, he hit Jacob's wrist with all he had. The handgun flew through the air, landing between some benches while Jacob gasped, bringing his broken wrist to his chest. Without allowing him time to respond, Alex struck the man's exposed torso and ribs. Knocking the air out of his lungs, he hit Jacob's head with the handle of his cane, bringing him down. When the thick crystal ball on the handle found the man's face, breaking his jaw, a throaty groan escaped Jacob's bloodied lips; his eyes closed, and he fell face-down on the floor.

Wasting no time, Alex ran to Christine. After carefully moving Robert's unconscious body, he untied the piece of cloth covering her lips and the ropes on her wrists.

"Where is he hurt?" he asked frantically, trying to find where the wound that had produced so much blood was.

"I saw him grabbing his arm—Alex!" Christine shouted as Alex sighed his relief. No arm wound could be fatal!

Alexander first saw the shadow on the opposite wall, and then actually felt the long, narrow piece of wood breaking on his back. He tried to move away from Christine and Robert, but Jacob's boot crashed into his face, breaking his nose, producing a sickening sound that echoed in his head.

"God!" Alex didn't recognize the guttural sound as his own pained voice as Jacob kicked his bad knee. Tears blurred his vision as the stabbing pain traveled through his body in waves.

"Alex!"

Christine's startled cry brought him back to his senses. Spitting blood and shaking his head to find some clarity, he stole a glance at Jacob, who was bending over a bench, also trying to compose himself. Jacob's every breath was drawn in with effort as his broken hand hung numb by his side.

Alex jumped, getting to his feet, balancing his weight on his good knee to stand up.  
He didn't allow Jacob time to breathe. He hit him hard on his lower back, forcing him to move away from the benches and Christine. He kept hitting him, passing his cane from one hand to the other mostly to distract Jacob, to make him dizzy, since none of the blows he struck would be able to knock him out by itself. He thrust, he poked, he stabbed the man with the tip of his cane, aiming for his shins, his obviously broken ribs, and his head.

It was clear Jacob was getting tired. It was a matter of time before he lost his focus; a matter of time before Alex would not even need to take the extra step back, the small jump to the side to evade his clumsy attacks. Jacob was like a wounded animal, cornered, still dangerous, but time, each passing minute, was working against him.

Alex looked at the man's disgusting face, his dull stare, his rotten teeth. In a short amount of time, it would be very easy. This man deserved to die. The world would probably be a brighter place when Jacob met his maker—or whoever claimed to have made such a creature—but Alex found himself looking about for a rope to tie him. No mistakes would be allowed this time.

His ears must have been buzzing from that kick in the head, because Alex didn't hear the sound this time. He just saw the red dot on Jacob's face, in the middle of his forehead. The only thing that ridiculously did come to mind was the illustrations in Indian fairytales of the maharajas' wives and the red tilakas between their eyebrows. He watched Jacob collapse to the ground like a tower made of cards, revealing Christine standing behind him, small, fragile, as the ivory grip of the pistol he had handed Robert earlier that night shone in her trembling hands. Her eyes burned him as she stood there shaking, looking at him like a fallen angel, streaks of dried blood all over her face and neck like bizarre red ribbons, never casting so much as a glance at Jacob's lifeless body.

She seemed to move her lips, but Alex could not make out what she was saying. He was by her side when her words, no more than a barely audible whisper, reached his ears.

"I think Robert is dead."

II II II

"Gaetan, take the parlor. I'll check the kitchen." The shorter man's instruction brought a smile to Erik's face. He liked to know people's names. He liked his sins to have names. He followed the taller man into the parlor.

"Gaetan," he whispered, throwing his voice in front of the man. It was a soft voice, smooth, alluring as crystalline water running from a spring on a very hot summer day. The man wasn't alarmed. Erik liked creating images with his voice. No use in dying in agony when it wasn't necessary! He felt really generous that night. No matter what the outcome, this morning had been the very best one of his life.

He whispered the man's name again, letting his voice travel across the room as if it had a body of its own. Gaetan seemed dazzled, mesmerized. More curious than worried. Erik smiled. It was good to know he still had the skill. He played a little with the man, who turned as if the voice were coming from the darkest part of the parlor, and then tilted his head as if it were just above his left ear. The man kept making circles around himself, knocking against some furniture.

"Gaetan!" Erik's tone now was reprimanding. So much noise! The man turned toward the door but never managed to leave the room.

II II II

Alex felt as if one of the large, steely hooks hanging from the abattoir's ceiling was digging deep into his flesh, ripping away pieces of muscle. Every step he took carrying Robert's lifeless body on his back felt that way. He welcomed the pain following every long, angry stride, not because he would reach Donatien's hidden horse sooner, but because it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

He had dismissed Christine's offer to wait beside Robert's body until he could bring the horse they had spotted tied to a tree no more than a hundred feet away. He was not going to let Christine out of his sight. He was the one who had left Robert alone. A living, breathing, hale man who had been thinking of his marriage and his unborn child had turned into the cold body that weighed a ton on his shoulders because he had wasted time with Jacob, because he had let Robert accompany him.

Christine was walking beside him like an apparition, like an automaton waiting to see Erik to come to life, and he should at least make sure he would not fail _them_. Alex had already failed Erik. He had destroyed Emily's chance at happiness. Most importantly, he had failed himself, and the worst thought he could not shake away, no matter how hard he tried, was that this was not the first time he had felt this way.

II II II

Erik clasped his hands behind his back, his eyes locked on the slice of darkness emerging from the door left slightly ajar.

The steps in the corridor sounded closer and stopped for a while before the man opened the door, a multi-barreled pistol in his hand. Erik let his mouth curl into a half smile at seeing the man's hand wavering. The light was blinding him.

"I admit I did not expect you, Mr. Hamilton."

Hamilton blinked and steadied his hand, aiming at him.

"I was counting on that, Monsieur Rochelle."

"No need for such extreme measures, though," Erik commented, leaning against the wall in a leisurely manner, taking in the man's disheveled state.

"On the contrary! I think it is very necessary! After all…everyone has his choice of weapons."

Erik shrugged his shoulders. "If it makes you feel more comfortable…"

Hamilton looked appreciatively at the unique decoration of the room as his eyes adjusted to the golden light.

"May I ask the purpose of your—and your men's—unexpected visit?"

"I think…we have a chess game left unfinished," Mr. Hamilton replied, baring his teeth in a grimace of arrogant satisfaction.


	39. Stalemate

Greetings to all!

Before I go on with the story stuff, I want to wish "Happy Birthday" to a very special reviewer for her birthday tomorrow! :-)

Two more chapters (this long one included) for this story to end. It's been a great journey…

Thank you, all, for reading and reviewing!

I would be ungrateful if I didn't thank Desiree and TOWDNWTBN for their great work. Hugs!

(Don't hate me!)

* * *

**Chapter 39 - Stalemate**

Erik watched Hamilton glance around the room, absorbing the details with the same look he had used to evaluate the chessboard in the past. His stare held a mixture of arrogance and appreciation which Erik tolerated with effort.

"This is a lady's room," Hamilton concluded, dragging his fingers over the rosewood étagère.

"How perceptive of you!" Erik muttered sarcastically through gritted teeth. He folded his arms across his chest, still leaning against the wall as the man inspected the Ikarus mural.

"I suppose I shouldn't ask about my men…?"

Erik shrugged his shoulders "I'm a terrible host!"

"Mirror pieces!" Hamilton observed, gazing at the elaborate construction on the ceiling. "Isn't it considered bad luck…broken mirrors?" A faint smile appeared on his face.

"That would explain a lot," Erik offered, looking bored, his eyes locked on the cautious man before him. Hamilton had only taken two steps into the room, as if afraid to turn his back or let Erik out of his sight.

"Donatien would be thrilled to see this."

"Donatien?"

"Excuse me…you only know him as _Robul_," Hamilton explained. The mocking tone he afforded his partner disturbed Erik more than the revelation of the name.

"He is very fond of you, you know…an enthusiastic fan! His brother, too, but less passionate…"

Erik remained silent.

"Legends are made out of necessities. Necessities and uncertainties! You know this better than I do… you have created a real legend in Paris. Your disappearance…magnificent!"

"I really don't see the point of all this…" Erik balanced his weight on his other foot.

"Let's say I'm making sure everything will go smoothly with the transaction…I don't like surprises, no matter how 'magical' they seem …and I have learned to use _uncertainties _to my benefit…"

"You mean you will keep aiming at me with that hardware for the next twelve hours?" Erik stood to his full height. "Pineaut's men will take that long. And they will deliver only to _me_! Aren't you afraid you'll get tired by then?" He raised his brow as he observed the irritatingly satisfied expression on the man's face.

"I am a very patient man, Erik—may I call you Erik? You don't know how patient I can be…do not fret! We have so many stories to tell…"

Erik forced himself to calm down and gazed at the man's cold eyes. He could be patient, if he wanted to.

"You brought this on yourself, you know…what would you say about a powerful man who provokes his own destruction? The destruction of his loved ones?"

"Guilt was never my drug, Hamilton. I am not a sensitive man." Erik forced an expressionless mask onto his face.

"There is a great irony there…an intelligent man such as you must have an opinion!" Hamilton took some more hesitant steps, still staying near the open door.

"Words fail me…" Erik replied sarcastically. "I'll leave the philosophical quests for the writer of the 'ghost' notes. Latin, Baudelaire, Poe…I'm highly impressed!"

"That is all François's work—I can't take the credit! It was the idea _he_ had when he heard of the whereabouts of the _Phantom_."

Erik leaned against the wall again as if interested in hearing a good story.

"Imagine his surprise when I told him that the man he claimed he knew was living in England and received ghost notes himself!"

"This _François _knows me?" Erik frowned.

"Not only has he met you, but you contracted his services some years ago! I met François Duval in a salon, smoking his cigar and weaving the story of how he had met the infamous Phantom. The notorious masked man thought he had fooled him when he asked for his services a few weeks after the fire at the Opera House. Duval was supposed to inform him of the whereabouts of the de Chagny couple. It was not difficult to guess who the man was…"

Erik's frown grew deeper. No, it would _not _have been difficult, when he had been so reckless, when he had had no care of what his fate would be. But now?

And the reason Robul's -Donatien's—voice had seemed so familiar… he should have guessed! He was Duval's brother! A Duval himself!

Erik looked at Hamilton's face. His expression was unnerving. A mixture of anticipation and sadistic pleasure. Why had he revealed his accomplices' names? What had changed?

"I hope I'm not disturbing you with all this… you see, unknowingly, of course, you were Duval's role model. The way you manipulated the managers at the Opera House, the way you escaped rich, letting everyone wonder…he had a piece of the puzzle everyone wanted to solve, but he was smarter than to share it publicly."

"He would have no gain—"

"Exactly! With your more than generous deposit, François Duval got a glimpse of high society, of a life he had known nothing about. A struggling lawyer, using your funds, entered the galas, enjoyed real luxury…when you changed your mind about pursuing Christine, he wasn't ready to give that up. When a man like François tastes a _First Growth _wine, he can't go back to _claret_! It tastes like vinegar!"

Hamilton leaned against the secretaire, baring his teeth in a wicked smile.

"You see…along with their palates, you've corrupted their souls!"

"Another sin I'll have to live with," Erik commented ironically. "What surprises me, though, is your revealing your involvement in all this." Or revealing his partners'….

"I couldn't let the Duval brothers take charge…they think of me as their overzealous follower…I am no one's disciple! No one's fan, either!" Hamilton offered another smile, relaxing a bit more. "I am not afraid of you, you know. The Duval brothers… they are... they took extreme measures in order for this to succeed. They are very determined…especially François. I guess it is a coming-of-age ritual for him…as with those wild tribes where boys have to face a challenge in order to become men…their fears amuse me...  
I have studied you! I know what you did to Jacob. I know your habits…I know how to protect myself!"

Hamilton's eyes locked on Erik's face as if expecting a reaction from him. When nothing happened, he turned his gaze to the canopy bed.

"You have to admit the story of the older man falling in love with the ungrateful young protégée can hardly be considered original! And the destruction of the opera house…you overreacted over a triviality! As if there are not enough women in the world! I know, women do have the ability to strip men of their power, but such a downfall…even though your c_ountess_—"

Erik unconsciously took a step forward, towards the man. He had to restrain himself and withdraw to the wall.  
"It will be hard to spend so many hours -" he started in a warning tone.

"I've insulted you? Excuse me if I've offended you, but you must have thought about it yourself…what is a man without power? Without the power your status…your money give you, what _virtues_ of yours could appeal to the _countess_?"

Erik's nostrils flared as the man continued to call Christine "countess." He took a deep breath, feeling his fury rising. His cool conviction that Hamilton was deliberately trying to irritate him was silenced by his anger. He folded his hands behind his back, tracing the edge of the rope under his sleeve.

"Women are very demanding creatures, Erik. They demand luxuries, attention, deep emotions, social status. A man would be very naïve to think he can keep up…because their demands keep changing…love can turn even the most intelligent man into a fool."

Erik focused on the barrels of Hamilton's gun. His hand was steady, unwavering. It was as if he were challenging him to react! Erik recalled the heads of the animals, the hunting trophies decorating his office walls. The pride of the hunter was battling with the man's greed, and for just a glimpse of a moment, Erik realized Daniel Hamilton might have been more pleased at having his head on the wall than with his money.

This realization, instead of calming him down enough to reevaluate the situation, made him angrier! It wasn't the first time he had been treated like something less than a man! Something more than a beast! As a novelty or a freak of nature! He hadn't appreciated it as a child. He wouldn't allow it now! There had been times in his life when he had let people persuade him he was less than a human being, but that could never happen again! He was strong now!

"Since we have so much time, I have an entertaining story to share, too." Erik let his mouth curl into a half smile. "Speaking of intelligent men acting foolishly…" he started in a calm voice, "imagine a man who knows of the existence of a treasure. For some reason we don't know of, he feels that the treasure belongs to him, but, by a wicked twist of fate, it is in the hands of two old ladies…for the story's sake, let's name them _Jane_…and _Gillian_." Erik watched the pallor on Hamilton's face with satisfaction. "And to make the story even easier, let's say the man is their nephew—"

"How…?" Hamilton opened his mouth to talk, but his mind refused to obey.

"I see you are familiar with the story," Erik added with derisive disappointment. "Then you know the nephew murdered the old ladies and searched for the treasure they had hidden from him, knowing his vices." Erik produced a genuine smile upon seeing Hamilton absentmindedly taking a few more steps into the room.

"Imagine now…I know it is hard, but please_ try _to imagine how stupid he must have felt at not finding the fruits of his …hard labor! At having been outsmarted by a widow and an old crone! How degrading! What an agony he must have felt the few hours he wandered their house, their blood drying on his hands! All his plans in vain! Still, our boy is a smart fellow!

"Knowing how to handle both _uncertainties _and _necessities_, he created a legend of his own! He soaked the place with his aunts' blood, creating such a brutal scene that no one would dare consider buying the house. With the possibility of a new owner erased, he eliminated any chance of someone else's finding what he was clearly incapable of finding himself." Hamilton's teeth gritted as a muscle spasm near his eye contorted his face.

"If I were that man and I were gifted with patience, I would let some time pass—one, maybe two years, while I would secretly search the area without being seen—before I'd move to the nearest village. After that, everything would be easy…occupying myself with a profession that would allow me time to travel so I wouldn't get stuck in the wretched place, I'd have all the opportunity in the world to find what my heart sought.  
How long do you think it would take? One year? Two? Five? How absolutely _moronic _would I be not to find what two old ladies hid? I could have walked the entire estate a thousand times, dug a thousand holes—"

"Shut up!" Hamilton yelled, his face red, as if he were going to have a stroke. "Shut up, you revolting freak!"

Erik smiled. He had heard worse.

"How long have you known? How—?"

"One could call it _divine _intervention!" Erik shrugged his shoulders, relishing Hamilton's frustration.

There was no way in the world he would reveal that only lately, after thinking of Father John's attempts to warn him about something sinister in the Red Door Cottage, had the idea crossed his mind. Still, it was Hamilton's involvement in the Duval brothers' scheme that made the idea a certainty.

"I wonder how you'll handle the next part of the story," Erik said playfully in mock concern. "Shall I inform you of your treasure's whereabouts?" Hamilton raised his brows in surprise, hatred flashing in his eyes.

"Your obedient servant!" Erik offered with a slight bow. "In the lake…in the water." He turned his head, throwing a brief glance at the uneven liquid surface outside the window. The heavy rain disturbed the green, smooth waters he had preferred for his summer swims. A thin streak of violet and pink over the hill signaled the dawn of a new day. "It wasn't so difficult! I found it during my first six months at the Red Door Cottage. I had no immediate need of it, so I used it for …decorative purposes." Erik lifted his eyes to the ceiling.

Hamilton fixed his gaze on the gold semicircular pieces erupting from the ceiling, and Erik was able to read in his expression the exact moment the realization sank in.

Hamilton clutched at his shirt inside his jacket at the level of his heart. Thinking it would be awkward to watch him die without laying a finger on him—even though it wouldn't be a novelty—Erik concentrated on the beads of sweat that gleamed on the man's forehead.

"I wonder …how _you _will handle…losing your queen." Hamilton's voice was shaken.  
Erik thought he was hallucinating.  
"I told you once I could be a great chess player if only I knew my opponent's character…I know _you_, Erik Rochelle!" Hamilton was shouting like a madman. "At this moment, I could claim a horse is flying over the damn lake, and you should say I'm right!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.  
"I am the only one who knows where your woman is…if she's alive…or for how long. How's that for a stalemate, freak? I may need you till this evening, but you need me so much more…" Hamilton bared his teeth in demonical laughter, his eyes glinting.

"Interesting attempt, Hamilton! No wonder you are great at cards," Erik offered with a smile he didn't feel.

"Let me know who the moron is now, you over-pompous idiot! You stand there telling stories while your woman is dying!"

Erik watched Hamilton throw what he had retrieved from his jacket pocket on the bed's silken coverlets as if in slow motion. As if he were out of his body, Erik watched himself slowly walk and grasp the long, thick braid of chestnut hair.

"I don't believe you," he heard himself say. Was that hard, cold voice his own? He brought the braid to his nose, smelling the unmistakable fragrance that was all Christine. How could this have happened?

"I don't believe it," he whispered to himself. If there was a god, this could not be happening.

"Take my word for it, freak! I have to admit I haven't seen her die, but _Jacob _has his orders."

"Jacob? Did you put Jacob—?" His voice broke as he thought of his Christine anywhere near that creature.

"Did I put him up to hitting James? I wish I could claim that! It would be very Machiavellian for someone of my _moronic intelligence_," Hamilton said, recovering his previous good mood. "I have to thank his own beastly nature for that insight into your character…however …your woman in his hands…if the story the Duval brothers shared is correct, you have wanted that woman for so long…will he spare her? Or has he killed her already?" Hamilton looked at the sun rising over the hill.

Erik felt bile rising to his throat at seeing his satisfied smile.

"She is not dead…" His voice trailed off. Was he the one sounding so pitifully weak?

"How do you know?" Hamilton's voice stung him, its poison spreading through his veins.

"I would have felt it…" he murmured pathetically. The braid in his hands felt warm, alive. He traced some stains of mud and dried blood with his fingers. _Her _blood?

Would he feel it? If Christine were dead, would he feel it? Had he felt it when she was fighting for her life in Paris? Had any great instinct born of love warned him? Erik shut his eyes in despair, bringing the braid to his lips. Her unruly cloud of curls was now dead in his palms.

He took a deep breath. He had imagined Christine dead before. In his sleep, he had seen her dying in childbirth. In his nightmares, when he had opened the letter announcing the news, he had always been in that very room, the room made for her. Such an irony…  
Such a travesty, really…he was standing now in the same room, fully awake. No hint of the violence he had seen in his dream, no killing Raoul, no crying. Just a cold sweat and a tremor that left his knees weak. If Christine were dead, what was the point of violence or fighting? Where was his strength now that he'd lost his compass?

He wrapped the rope around his wrist, around her braid. Maybe escape wasn't such a necessity anymore…

"She had great faith in you, you know…such a romantic soul…"

Hamilton's voice brought him back to reality. His sarcastic words shook him. How could he surrender when nothing was certain, when he hadn't seen Christine with his own eyes?

He looked at the man who was walking towards the middle of the room, confident, almost content. No rope would be quicker than his finger on that trigger. There was no way Erik could kill him.

But kill him he should! Whatever had happened, Erik knew now that Hamilton was a dangerous man. More dangerous than the admiring Donatien or intellectual François, more patient than Erik would ever be. And Hamilton would never leave witnesses alive. There was no doubt about that. If Hamilton remained alive, no one would be safe.

Erik stole a glance at the window behind him. He was two, maybe three steps from the tall bureau which hid the last rope sustaining the heavy ceiling over their heads. He had cut the other eight ropes which had secured the construction in place after James had left. This last rope was used to change the angle so that the light would reflect properly. It seemed that this night demanded extreme measures. Erik looked at Hamilton's haughty expression as he stood, proud and conceited, in the middle of the room. He walked slowly to the drawers.

"If you really understood chess, you would know better than to underestimate the _rook_. A man's castle…" he started as his hand found the rope and pulled the lever which released it so hard that he broke it. Without hesitation, he jumped out the window. The thunderous noise of the elaborate sculpted ceiling crashing to the floor muffled the sound of the gunshot, but Erik felt the unmistakable burning in his torso. It didn't matter. Hamilton would die before he did. Thinking this, he collided with the glass surface of the greenhouse.

II II II

"Blue seems to smell something!" James shouted, pointing at the Twin House's back garden.

Christine rushed in that direction, hope tightening her throat. The men upstairs were trying to lift what remained of Erik's masterpiece of a ceiling. They had already retrieved Daniel Hamilton's body, and everyone was afraid of what they would find next.

Blue's mismatched eyes looked at her as he wagged his tail frantically. James was already by his side, moving pieces of metal and glass aside.

"He's here! I've found him!" the boy's voice sounded like music to her ears.

II II II

"Why doesn't he talk to me? Why doesn't he open his eyes?" Christine's panicky tone disturbed Dr. McKinnan's concentration, and he lifted his eyes, annoyed.

"Perhaps it would be better for you to stay outside…" he offered, focusing his attention back on his patient.

The gravely serious tone from a man always so polite, so thoughtful of other people's feelings, was even more frightening than looking at Erik's bloodied body, at his closed eyes. Christine turned to the other two people in the room as if she could read the doctor's verdict in their faces.

Dr. McKinnan's wife, serving as his nurse, was avoiding her stare, cleaning a deep gash in Erik's thigh. Tears stung Christine's eyes as she looked at the torn flesh.  
"_You are my man. I claim your body as my own_." How long ago had she uttered those words? Why did it feel like ages ago?

She averted her glance, looking at Alex's tall frame at the corner of the room as he cut sheets into strips to make bandages. His absorption in the task seemed more suspicious than comforting. When, for a second, their eyes met, he hastily looked away. Now the sound of the ripping cloth sent shivers down her spine.

Christine frowned as she stood in the middle of the cold room she had never seen during her tour of the Twin House. A lump lodged in her throat, and she had to stifle a sob, suppressing that day's memory in her mind. She pressed the back of her hand to her lips as her vision blurred with all the white linens stored on shelves and drawers around her.  
So much white! It almost pained her to look.

"Please give me something to do," she pleaded, focusing on the contrasting red that was all Erik.

"You can clean his face of the shards," Dr. McKinnan instructed, his eyes never leaving his patient.

Christine dared a glance at Erik's torso, taking away the pair of scissors the doctor had used to remove his clothes. Her stomach knotted up as the bullet hole in his chest gaped back at her, ominous, threatening.

She cupped his cheek, wincing as she removed the tiny shards of glass as gently as she could. Christine tried to focus on the hollow sound they produced when falling onto the plate, to keep her eyes from the doctor's ministrations as he removed the bullet. Her white cloth was painted red, but she didn't dare move away. She felt as if all her vital energy were being channeled through her hands to his face, urging him to fight, begging him to live.

Christine bent her head to the level of Erik's face, blocking all the sound, all talk, focusing on the slightest movement of his pale lips as they took in breath. She placed her hand on the arch of his throat, the strong column of his neck she loved to caress, tracing his weak, erratic pulse.

"The bullet is stuck. The damn thing has pierced the lung and stopped at his rib," Dr. McKinnan muttered, more to himself.

"William, there's a piece of metal here I'm afraid to remove. I can't risk a hemorrhage…" His wife's voice was soft despite her urgent tone.

"Unless I remove this bloody bullet, there is no point in doing anything," the Scotsman said under his breath, searching with his stare among his medical instruments. As if attuned to his thoughts, his wife retrieved a long metal tool which looked like tongs from his surgical set.

"Maybe the forceps—?" her soft voice was asking.

"Are they clean?" the man asked, without looking, forcing a piece of cloth inside the wound. Christine bit her tongue to repress a cry.

"With carbolic acid, William! Everything in this kit has been sterilized," his wife said in a tone implying she had answered that question a thousand times.

Erik stirred in pain at the doctor's probing with the long instrument.

"If only I could see your eyes…" Christine pleaded near his face.

She almost jumped back in surprise when he gasped for breath, groaning in pain. Erik opened his eyes slowly, with effort. The golden orbs Christine was expecting to see were bloodshot as he looked around, disoriented.

"Erik—" she whispered in his ear, "It's me… Christine…" Tears ran down her cheeks freely now as she saw the throbbing veins in his throat swell with effort and pain.

"Chr…" Foamy pink blood flowed from his mouth, choking him.

"Keep his head to the side!" Dr. McKinnan ordered Alex, who rushed to the joined tables that formed the improvised surgical bed.

With an almost violent wrenching motion, the doctor extracted the bullet from the bone. Erik cried out in pain, at the edge of losing his senses once more, and squeezed her hand. He looked at her through heavy-lidded eyes, demanding answers to his unspoken questions. Christine cleaned his face, shaking uncontrollably with sobs she was trying miserably to restrain.

"Hamilton is dead…" she said through her trembling lips, "everything will be fine, my love—" Her voice broke as she leaned to his beloved face, cupping his marred flesh.

"Your hair—" he mouthed the words rather than uttering them.

Christine ran a hand over her short curls, smiling.

"It'll grow. No harm done…unless you don't like me anymore," she teased, frowning at the swollen veins on his neck.

Erik curled his lips into a smile, but his throat constricted as more blood filled his mouth, taking his breath away.

"Madame, you're hurting him!" The doctor's firm voice felt like a slap to her face. Christine took a step back, but Erik's hand gripped her wrist.

His stare was desperate. He opened his mouth, but Christine pressed her fingers on his hand.

"You have to save your strength, my love," she whispered, kneeling before him, trying to compose herself. She had to be strong. She had to have courage. "Don't talk now…we'll talk later," she said in a soothing tone, looking at McKinnan's swift movements with the suture needle holder. The man's hands moved as if dancing a very precise choreography, but his grim face, his deep frown spoiled the aura of hope and security around him.

"Forgive me," Erik mouthed again, exhaustion evident in his eyes. His pain-contorted features now looked calmer. Wasn't that a good sign?  
He cupped her cheek, tears running from the corners of his eyes. Christine looked at him, feeling a cold hand gripping her chest, suffocating her.

"There is nothing to forgive…" she muttered faintly, but he squeezed her hand. Fresh tears welled up at his weak grip. She brought his long fingers to her mouth, kissing his warm hand.

"Forgive me!"

"Please, Erik…you're frightening me," she whispered, letting her tears flow again.

"It wasn't meant to be…" He had used all his strength to make his voice audible. The veins in his throat throbbed, his stare on her intense, piercing her soul, as he looked at her, his yellow eyes a pool of red as his breathing became rapid and his chest rose.

"Take her out of here!" McKinnan ordered Alex, and Christine felt two firm hands on her shoulders, lifting her up, guiding her away.

The room was filled with people. Curious, sympathetic, questioning, judgmental stares landed on Christine as soon as she left Erik and walked into the parlor. Alex's hand on her shoulder guided her steps. After the white room, it was as if her senses were enhanced. Everything sounded too loud, every color too bright, blinding her. Wanting to block Erik's words from her mind, she heard every little comment, every grim conjecture with remarkable apathy.

Who _were _all these people? She remembered Alex and herself asking for Dr. McKinnan's help, leaving poor Robert's body at his house which served as a private office. She knew James had disobeyed Erik's orders and come back with Father Michael after a quick visit to the village. Had they asked for all these people to be here, or was the possibility of a new tragedy at the Twin Houses so hard to resist?

"I'll get a clean cloth for my nose. I can't get the bleeding to stop…" Alex explained, leading her to the window. She looked at his bloodied handkerchief. His worried face couldn't fool her. He wanted to check on Erik.  
"We should consider the possibility of sending James to let Emily know…" His voice trailed off. He was thinking that this would take days. She had thought about it, too. She nodded, thinking she liked Alex. She watched him as he talked to James. She wanted to spy when he opened the door, to take a peek at what was happening within, like all the other curious people raising their heads every time the door opened, but she couldn't. She focused her blank stare on the lake, hearing Erik's words in her mind, feeling dizzy.  
What was he asking of her? She pushed the question away. It hurt as if she had touched a fresh wound to check how it was healing.

Alex was once more by her side, staring at her worriedly. Christine raised her eyes to look at his bruised, broken nose, his long, raven hair falling loose over his shoulders, his bloodied shirt and half-open waistcoat. Still, he carried himself in an elegant manner not even his now-heavier limp was able to shake. She really liked Alexander. She owed him her life. Yet, looking at him, in spite of the guilt and the shame that filled her, all she could think was that there was nothing she wouldn't trade for him to be in Erik's place and Erik by her side, safe and well. What kind of person did that make her? Could she ask God's help when she was thinking like that? Wasn't she the one who had killed a man that very night?  
How could God hear her prayer now, and even worse, what would be her punishment?

She pressed her cold palms flat against her cheeks, feeling pure madness claiming her soul.  
"I will go inside. I don't care what the doctor says. I should be there. He needs me!" Her voice was rising with every word spoken, louder, in a hysterical tone.

"Please, Madame, behave yourself! Think of your position. It is already highly improper—" Father John's strict voice penetrated her dazed thoughts. Christine focused her glassy eyes on the old man's stern expression. She couldn't find a hint of compassion on his face.

"What is improper? Worrying about a man fighting for his life? Why?  
He is my _husband_, you pathetic excuse of a man! Father Michael married us yesterday morning at the Red Door Cottage. Ask him!"  
Christine raised her hand, her open palm just a few inches from the priest's stunned face, exhibiting the modest gold band on her ring finger. Her hand trembled, and she clenched it into a fist, staring with disgust at the man, taking a step back as if afraid she would hit him.  
"Are you satisfied about my position now? Can I worry now? Is it proper to cry? Can I say—?"

The door opened, and Christine flinched at seeing the doctor's grim face, the deep lines around his mouth. She knew Dr. McKinnan. Outside the surgery, he was a sweet, gentle man who hated to deliver bad news. Why did he look so devastated, so apologetic as he looked at her?

"Madame Rochelle, I am so sorry… there was nothing I could do. If he hadn't lost so much blood, if we had found him sooner—"

Words. More words. Christine watched the man's mouth moving, forming excuses, and all she could hear was her pulse throbbing rhythmically, sounding loud as a hammer striking inside her temples. She refused to hear more nonsense. What did this man know about Erik? About what he was capable of? Silly man. He knew nothing.

She had taken a few shaky steps towards the white room's half-open door when Alexander's hand on her arm stopped her. She had never seen a face with more pain on it in her life. Tears gleamed in his eyes. She shook his hand away. What did he know about Erik? Erik controlled life and death. This was _their _time. They had finally found each other. He would never leave her. He had promised. They would survive this.

"_Forgive me_." Erik's words burned her. It felt so wrong. Her Angel would never ask for forgiveness. Her Angel was never wrong or weak.  
She must have _thought _he had sounded weak. Her mind played tricks on her sometimes. All she needed was faith. Faith in Erik.

"_Erik is strong. You can't hurt him. Nothing can hurt him_." His words from not so long ago urged her to go on. This was her Erik.  
Erik, who knew her soul, who knew what _made her heart bleed_, who lovingly took on her burdens with his golden eyes glowing reassuringly, Erik, who loved her even when she hated herself. That Erik would never, ever let her face this alone. He wouldn't do that to her. Her Angel would have taken her with him.

"_Forgive me_." She felt so small again, tiny, alone and cold, all by herself. Christine blinked and bit the white knuckles of her small fist to withhold her scream. Did Angels die?

The nurse looked at her wide-eyed, standing beside the bed. Christine averted her eyes from the crying woman, searching for the red in the white room.

All the air left her lungs when she saw the white sheet covering the long body on the surgical bed. Her Erik, the embodiment of power, was lost in the white color of death. The room whirled around her, but breathless, she pressed herself to take one more step. Her eyes had caught a flash of red, and she moved in its direction. Through her blurred vision, she saw his hand hanging from the bed, the long fingers she had kissed a few minutes ago. She stretched to stroke it. A violent tremor shook her to the core when she touched the cold palm, colder than the shining golden ring he had been so proud to wear.

Christine felt as if, after a long time, she now didn't need to fight anymore, didn't need to think, or feel, or even breathe. She was floating. She welcomed the darkness, wishing she would never have to face the harsh light of day again.


	40. Books and graves

Thank you, all, for reading this story! It's been a wild, beautiful journey that allowed me to travel throughout the world. Well, the traffic stats showing the readers' countries did that, but it was a nice feeling anyway.

I'm sorry if I made you sad in the last chapter. This story was based on the idea that Erik was a real man, a real human being living before the story Leroux wrote or even _Trilby_ (George du Maurier's novel that is supposed to have inspired Leroux) or whatever AWL describes in his musical, so his life is as fragile as everyone's...

As you know, this story ends with this –long— chapter, so I won't drag it any longer.

Desiree and TOWDNWTBN had a huge, important, monumental role into making all this possible so I thank them from the bottom of my heart.

I wish you the best and it's been great meeting you through your reviews.

Now on with the show…

* * *

**Chapter 39-Books and Graves**

_"The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague.  
Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?"  
Edgar Allan Poe _

_Ten months later…_

The early autumn sun remained hidden behind the dark, thick clouds, gathered into a sky threatening storms. The constant rainfall of the last few days had covered the streets with mud, muffling the sound of the hooves on the lane. It looked more like dusk than noon-"terrible weather for a ride," her neighbor, Mrs. Cross, had declared earlier in the morning- but Christine would not allow mere rain to alter her schedule.

She looked at James' solemn face, at his rigid posture as he held the reins and drove the small, modest carriage Alexander Arnaud had provided "to make life easier," as he had put it, a sarcastic, self-mocking smile lurking on his lips.

"An easy life." Somehow that sounded more like a macabre joke than anything else.  
Christine brushed her hand over her black dress to straighten the wrinkles her restless hands had caused earlier, fidgeting with the soft fabric.

Suppressing a sigh, she let her eyes trace the first signs of the town cemetery-the entrance gates and the high railings. She knew she had to wait until after the next turn to have a clear view of the sculptured monuments, the mausoleums, and the beautiful stone burial vaults wealthy families usually preferred.

If she wished to be honest, she had to admit Alex's choice had been perfect-if "perfect" could be a word used to describe the place where people and dreams were buried. Nevertheless, the landscape was beautiful. Built on a hill, filled with trees and shrubs strategically placed to enhance the feeling of peace and loneliness, the cemetery was a place where tranquility and serenity reined. Christine had wished many times for that serenity, but her troubled mind and her tortured soul found no solace in walking the winding paths leading to the small chapel on the hill. She found no consolation in looking at other people's short or long lives, no curiosity stirred when reading their names engraved in stone or marble.

Her heart started beating rapidly every time she was near the cemetery. Her anxiety would keep rising, making her nervous, almost nauseous, as anger and an almost violent wave of disappointment washed over her. Her distress wouldn't subside until she was in front of_ his _grave. Her husband for less than a day, her maestro for years, her only love, the reason she was still alive…

"This is not the way it should have been." The injustice in all of it still shook her to the core.  
Grief wasn't new to her. Her father had suffered a slow death, suffering so much at the end that death was almost a relief.

Erik wasn't her father.

This was the time they should have been together, the time she should have been showing him what it meant to love and be loved – not a time to visit a cold stone. She held back the tears, throwing a guilty glance at the young man sitting silently beside her. James had witnessed more tears than a boy his age ever should. He had endured her pain stoically, showing patience no adult ever would, and furthermore he had shared his pain, penetrating her loneliness in a way no one else could. But above all, what made her heart break a thousand times a day was the realization that no real flesh-and-blood son could have absorbed Erik's character and mentality in a more profound way.

Sometimes, it was a grimace, a spontaneous response, a witty, faintly sarcastic comment that could trigger the comparison, but most of the time, it was his silence, the caring way he observed her, like a guard and a guardian. Christine knew he regarded it as his duty. A heavy task for a boy not even fourteen years old!

Christine watched him, too. The shy boy she had met had bloomed into a confident young man, taking charge of their life in the small house in Kings Worthy. He was almost taller than she now, experiencing the clumsy effects of gaining sudden height in such a short time. Her first smile after weeks of tears had come when she had noticed him wearing a pair of too-short trousers. They had just moved into their modest new house, which was not far away from the Whitfield cottage where Emily was still living. That smile had been almost painful, as it had come along with the realization that the world did not turn around her, no matter how frozen it seemed.

Since living at the Red Door Cottage had been out of the question those first vague, hazy days, Christine had let herself be driven by circumstances. Alexander Arnaud had made all the major decisions in her life, splitting his time between Whitfield and Kings Worthy and Winchester, and wherever else occasion demanded. Christine ought to have been grateful, but she wasn't.

It would be a long time before she'd allow feelings like forgiveness and gratitude to enter her heart. She understood the reasoning behind not staying at the Red Door Cottage—two deaths in the village, not counting the unclaimed body of Donatien Duval, were enough to stir a new scandal that would last for the next ten years. Still, there were nights she thought she would trade her soul to be in Erik's room, or in front of the piano where he had sung the Persian love song to her.

It was Alexander who had made the arrangements for the grave in this cemetery—less than a thirty-minute ride from the house—as he had arranged for Robert's body to find peace in his village near Swansea.

"Perhaps it would be better if I escorted you this time." James' voice dragged her out of her reverie. Surprised, she realized they weren't moving, as the carriage had stopped beside the northern entrance that Christine preferred.  
She looked at his concerned green eyes. Did he think company would lessen the sadness, the disappointment?

"I would like some time alone. Perhaps next time—"

"But—"

"I know, James, I know," she muttered, patting his hand, which still held the reins, with her gloved one.

James looked at her from under furrowing saffron-colored brows, and Christine forced her stiff lips into a smile. Always a gentleman, he jumped off of the box to help her.

Christine started walking the few yards to the gates, her heart pounding in her chest. She stroked the ring under her glove with her thumb, trying to ease her distress. It was part of the macabre quality of her life these days that every time she visited the graveyard, her mind traveled back to her wedding day, or the nights before….

II II II

She would always remember that night. She had been stretching her sore muscles beneath the warm sheets, yawning, only to find Erik wasn't lying beside her. His part of the bed felt cold under her fingers. The room was still dark apart from the dim light of a lamp and the blazing fire. She had called his name, a strange kind of distress clenching her heart, a sense of abandonment.

Only an hour later, when he had entered the room, fully dressed, looking at her intensely, had Christine allowed herself to get angry and pout.

"You were out!" she had accused him, as if it were a mortal sin.

His grin upon seeing her awake had frozen on his lips when he heard her tone.

"I didn't want to wake you…"

How had he _dared _to use that manipulatively velvety voice against her anger? Hadn't he known that when she was angry, she wanted to remain angry? And the most maddening thing of all had been that –betraying herself—she had felt her anger dissolving like melting ice.

He had sat on the bed beside her, cupping her face with his warm hand.

"Get rid of that wet jacket before you catch a cold," she had ordered, adding in a lower voice, "And come back here…. When a man leaves his bed in the middle of the night, he has a lot of explaining to do!" She had hardly restrained herself from laughing at his challenging half-smile, at the questioning arched brow. In a shameless gesture, she had stuck her tongue out, mocking him.

"Oh…Christine," he'd muttered, beaming. "You are such a child, sometimes. I'm questioning my sanity—"

"You are always questioning something, but this time I don't care…and I won't until you tell me where you were."

He had tossed his waistcoat over his jacket and removed his cufflinks as Christine followed his movements and mentally marked the furniture he'd placed them on.

"Are you satisfied now?" His tone had been strange. He'd sat on the bed, looking into her eyes seriously. Christine remembered that she had felt playful.

He'd flinched when she'd removed his mask, but she hadn't paid attention to it. Eventually, he would get used to it! She'd cupped the marred flesh, watching the anxiety lines deepening on his face. He must have expected a lecture again about how much she loved him despite his face. His gaze had fallen to her lap, tracing the folds on the sheet. His resigned look had been the clearest indication that despite his resolution not to believe her, he would endure it.

"Do you shave here?" she'd asked, surprising him.

"Not really."

"You know…you should stop wearing the mask all the time," she'd said, touching his uneven right eyebrow. "Maybe it will grow right if the mask doesn't press it every second of the day." He'd looked at her, an incredulous expression all over his face, as if she were a small girl playing with her doll.

"A full eyebrow! Such beauty!" His sarcastic remark had earned him a slap on the arm.

"Stop that! I'm serious. It will be good for the skin, too. It would breathe better."

"And I'd been wondering what was wrong with my face. Everything makes sense now…the skin _wasn't breathing properly_!" Christine could still hear his soft chuckle.

"You're outrageous! It's my fault for caring!" she had exclaimed in mock disappointment. "I don't know what to do—"

"Marry me!" he'd interrupted passionately, holding her face between his two warm palms.

"Of course I will marry you," she'd replied sternly. "There is no way you'll avoid this anymore—my reputation is ruined, I've already proposed…" Her voice had trailed off at the expression in his serious golden eyes.

"Marry me _now_! Today! Tomorrow, if James can't bring the vicar from Highworth this morning."

"You are serious." Why were tears always so easy for her? There wasn't a lot she wouldn't trade now to have a clear image of his face in her memories...

"_You _proposed!" He'd sounded defensive, even uncertain. Sometimes, Erik could be as silly as any other man….

"Today! Let's do it today!" She'd urged enthusiastically, kneeling on the bed. "There's so much to do… look at my hair…I have to see what dress I'll wear…we have to tell Emily, Jamie-"

"I've already sent James to Highworth, and Emily is preparing a fruitcake." He'd shrugged his shoulders. "She claims that's the tradition."

"You wicked man! You knew I'd say yes!"

Another shrug of the shoulders, another mischievous, almost smug smile. She'd let her whole weight fall on him, dragging him down onto the sheets, kissing the smugness out of his lips, biting him in the process.

Christine could still recall the lightness in her heart, her laughter until her cheeks hurt, her tears of joy, and what he once used to describe in that beautiful voice of his as "her naughty mood." Only later, lying on the bed with his head on her chest, stroking the strong arms around her waist, had she felt the first bite of worry and fear.

"Has Emily told you about the bad premonition she has had these past few days?"

Erik had raised his head, looking at her, evaluating the seriousness of her words. Once more, she'd been amazed by the way he'd always managed to hide his scarred flesh, allowing her a perfect view only of his unblemished cheek.

"Nonsense! Every man makes his own fate. I learned that years ago. I've been alone all my life, in my achievements and my mistakes. Now, for the first time in my life, I am not alone."

No, that time Erik hadn't been alone…

II II II

Christine pushed the steely smaller gate open and entered the cemetery. Before starting to ascend the path that led, twisting and curving, to the grave she sought, she walked to the small stone cottage that served as Mr. Davies' home.

Years ago, the old man had found solace working at the town's cemetery as a groundskeeper and a gardener. Knowing that the man's sharp eyes compensated for his weak legs, Christine wasn't surprised to see the house's door opening, and Mr. Davies appearing at the doorframe. Like the polite host of an otherworldly domain, he always talked to her during her visits.

"Madame Rochelle, I knew you would come!" He looked at the heavy clouds, shaking his head. His smile had a constant sadness in it that Christine found fitting to the serenity of the place. "Please come inside…it hasn't stopped raining! I'm afraid the roof mightn't survive another rainstorm like last night's."

Removing the hood of her cloak, Christine followed him into the tiny room, thinking that the man reminded her of a short, kind-hearted bear.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Mr. Davies offered. "You could ask the young man to join us, too," he added, throwing a glance at James' figure through the stained window.

"Thank you, but I won't stay long…"

"You're brave, you are, to come today. Only Mrs. Fairchild – you know the mayor's widow – and Mr. Evans have been as brave…" His voice trailed off. Christine anxiously followed his gaze, which led to the kitchen table. "Mrs. Fairchild was kind enough to bring me a basket." A vague disappointment was evident in his voice. Christine knew Mr. Davies' weakness and doubted Mrs. Fairchild would approve.

"She didn't stay long, either—her granddaughter has a cold again…Miss Jane is so fragile—and Mr. Evans never stops by, never talks. Poor man…to lose his wife and child in such a terrible carriage accident. His brother told me all about it the other day… they were burned to death in front of his eyes… I could tell you details that'd break your heart…surely break your heart…no wonder the poor man…four months—it's so fresh…it will take time…"

Christine absentmindedly raised her trembling hands to the dying fire. Even a blazing, roaring fire seemed a luxury for the lonely Mr. Davies. He could talk for endless hours about the residents of the cemetery and their visitors as if they were members of his family, but Christine heard her own rapid heartbeat louder than any story the old man shared. She peeled off her gloves, now feeling her hands warm and her cheeks flushed. Drawing in a few breaths to compose herself and send the dizziness away, she glanced at the man, who continued talking and waving his hands.

"You have to be very careful, Madame Rochelle! Roads are not the same anymore. And no one knows where the next tragedy will happen. Take Mr. Evans, for example…he doesn't live here, he travels all the time, and the one time he traveled with his family…"

Christine was moved by the old man's shaking voice. Tears welled up easily in Mr. Davies' eyes. Whether it was because of his occupation, his genuinely romantic soul, or his love of ale, Christine didn't know.

"I will leave the book I promised you here," Christine told him, a faint smile forming on her now pale face.

"Oh, Rabbie Burns! Thank you! Have I told you how my Anna loved his poetry, Madame Rochelle?"

Christine nodded. Following the ritual they had formed with their friendship over the months, Mr. Davies put the small pouch she had left on the book into his pocket, nodding his head in gratitude, without saying a word. Then he took the small book in his hands, riffling through its pages.

"'_And fare thee weel, my only Luve  
And fare thee weel, a while!  
And I will come again, my Luve,  
Tho' it were ten thousand mile._'  
He was a genius, this Robert Burns, a true genius! My Anna used to say: 'there is no love like this, Bartholomew, no love—'"

Christine felt her face grow hot again. Her eyes filled with tears, and she swallowed with effort.

"I have to go, Mr. Davies." She stifled a sob and almost ran out of the house, letting the rain cool her face before pulling the hood over her wet curls.

It wasn't long before she heard Mr. Davies' loud humming as he exited his house. She'd bet her pouch was still in his pocket as he was heading towards the "Red Lion." Pint after pint, Mr. Davies would exorcise his sorrows, while Christine made use of her precious solitude.

His humming kept her company till it faded, muffled by the sound of the rain.  
It reminded her of Emily's humming on her wedding day.

In spite of her ominous feelings and premonitions, and determined to send any gloomy clouds away, the Welshwoman had begun singing a traditional Welsh wedding song. When Erik forbade her from singing, she had laughed in his face, humming happy tunes, putting her own lyrics to them, or adjusting the music to little poems and rhymes.

"This is Wednesday! You're getting married on Wednesday!" Emily had said joyfully as she had helped her get into her white dress with the blue trimming—a fitting choice for a second marriage.

"_Marry on Monday for health,  
Tuesday for wealth,  
Wednesday the best day of all,  
Thursday for crosses,  
Friday for losses, and  
Saturday for no luck at all!" _

Christine had laughed over the blonde woman's exaggerated off-key singing.

"Father Michael says it's time…and Erik says that is also considered a song!" James' loud voice had traveled through the closed door. As the best man, he hadn't dared enter. "He requests that Emily not sing, as his personal wedding present." The boy's laughter had faded as he'd run down the stairs.

"Men!" Emily had muttered under her breath, fastening the endless tiny buttons.

Beaming, Christine had started singing the clumsy tune, urging Emily to accompany her.

Christine bit her lower lip and restrained herself from running towards the grave. Running in a cemetery was highly improper - as if the dead could be disturbed or offended that life still went on, even without them.

She brushed the rose bushes planted on both sides of the path with her fingers, her eyes catching a glimpse of the gold band on her finger.

"It is a gimmal ring," Erik had explained, opening the velvety black box, revealing the two-hoop ring. "A bit old fashioned, but I always liked it. See? The two hoops play within one another like the links of a chain." With swift movements of his fingers that Christine's eyes hadn't been able to follow, the two hoops broke free, becoming two separate golden bands. "When two lovers wore these, it meant they were engaged. On the wedding day, they fit the two together to make the wedding ring."

"My magician!" Christine had stood on her toes to brush a light kiss on his lips before letting him slip the gimmal ring onto her ring finger.

That soft brushing of the lips had nothing to do with the furious, aggressive kiss she had given him just before leaving him to follow Robert and Emily on that fateful night. Once more, guilt gripped her chest as she remembered how angry she had been with him, angry with Robert, angry at the fate that had only allowed her a small taste of promised happiness, and had immediately taken it back.

For a second, that moment – for more than a second, as Erik had deepened the kiss, she had felt that she'd convinced him to let her stay with him, that she had won. Her fingers had run under his rolled sleeve, tracing the smooth skin at the crook of his elbow. Wanting more access to him, her hand had slid under his black waistcoat, tracing the muscles of his back, as she'd pressed herself flat against his lean body, her other arm wrapped around his neck. She had smiled victoriously, feeling him growl inside her mouth, and had started nibbling at the strong column of his throat.

Feeling his hands around her waist, lifting her up to the level of his eyes, Christine had known she had lost. His intense stare, the tortured hunger in his eyes, the desperate kiss—more painful than pleasurable—still haunted her at night.

That night, when he'd broken that last kiss, she had cursed his self-control, his rational way of thinking, and his protectiveness. She had removed the gimmal ring from her finger, placing it in his palm.

"Take one band, and give it to me when we're able to be together again. I'll wear the two bands united only when we can claim 'forever,'" she had explained quickly, seeing the unveiled hurt in his eyes.

"I promise you, Christine. We will survive this. Who knows? Maybe sometime in the future, we will talk about it and laugh." He'd smiled sadly, slipping the band onto his little finger.

"At least I can boast that mine was no ordinary wedding!"

Christine shook her head to shake away the memories. Was she so sick as to enjoy that self-inflicted pain?

In front of the modest gravestone, she let her eyes take in the different shades of green. She looked at the silhouette of the man with the hunched shoulders who walked slowly among the graves at the farthest border of the cemetery. Many people found peace walking among the dead. His dark figure, whipped by the wind and the rain, formed an unearthly sight that clenched at her heart. She knew his grief.

Christine's eyes focused on the gravestone before her. An engraved name. At first, she had wanted nothing more. Then, after a few months, she'd changed her mind.

"You carried the soul from my body  
And yet you are still in the soul."

The first lines of the Persian song he'd sung for her the day he'd kissed her for the first time, the day she had felt forgiven, and had forgiven herself. She remembered his anger as he had sung the words he had refused to translate at the time, his passion, his yearning - his first secret, unwanted confession of love. Christine closed her eyes, letting herself soar as the music filled her mind.

"I am sure your husband would understand if you had not come in such rain." A reprimanding voice dragged her out of her reverie.

Christine brushed at a tear running down her cheek without looking at the man standing a few feet away.

"It is not his understanding I miss…Mr. Evans."

His silence was broken only by the sound of his steps on the wet stones of the path.  
Christine removed her hood, turning her face towards the man standing by her side, who was looking at the grave before them.

"I would like my husband to eat and not neglect his health, but, alas! I can't force him to do anything now…I have no power over him."

"I doubt that, Madame. Not even death would be able to lessen your power over your husband."

Fresh tears escaped Christine's eyes as she caught a glimpse of his white mask and his golden eyes, glowing under his hat.

II II II

"Please, Christine…" His warm, soothing voice had a tone of helplessness.

Christine nodded, trying to compose herself, to stifle the sobs threatening to overpower her. She knew they should keep pretending, she knew no consoling hug would be proper or even safe in such a public place, but she couldn't help herself. It was always the same. The few times they had been able to meet under the _Mr. Evans _façade which Alexander had woven over the last months, it had always been the sound of his voice, the melodic timbre she could never shake from her mind, that broke her.

"Christine…"

She nodded again, a large smile forming on her lips. Maybe Alexander's idea was ingenious after all. This was the perfect place for crying, and even if they _should _keep pretending, it was easy to spot anyone watching them who was out of the ordinary.

Out of habit, she glanced over her shoulder. It had become almost an unconscious routine over the last ten months whenever she was outside her house. Even her unskilled eye had detected people watching her at times. She couldn't say whether they were François Duval's men, checking the whereabouts of Erik's widow, or Erik's people looking out for her.

What Christine could say with aching accuracy was that she hadn't seen Erik more than twice during that crucial fortnight, during the time Dr. McKinnan hadn't known whether he'd survive the fever that threatened his life. Christine remembered with every painful detail each of the two times she'd seen him during the three months of his slow recovery thereafter. Then, later, there were the three visits he'd accomplished as the grieving Mr. Evans.

Seven times - just a few minutes each, always in a hurry, always in agony. That was all she had had of Erik. That and the wild heartbeat her weekly cemetery visit every Wednesday had yielded her. Wednesday was the day they had arranged for their possible, rare meetings. That was the day she anticipated all week, hoping, praying that the traveller, _Mr. Evans_, would visit his family's graves.

"Where are you coming from this time?" Erik should be proud of her detached tone, her neutral voice.

"France. I arrived in Dover only last night. I tried to be here on time."

She dared a look at his face. He was thin. Not as thin as when he had lived beneath the opera house, but still thin. He had black circles under his eyes, and the skin was tight over his visible cheekbone. He looked tired, nothing like the man she had met when she had first arrived at the Red Door Cottage.

Her heart ached, and she imagined herself taking him home, feeding him burned pies, kissing him and holding him tight in her arms, keeping him away from the risks she knew he took, out of harm's way. She longed to say how much she loved him, how much she missed him and that nothing was worth such pain, such anguish. Instead, Christine kept her silence, averting her eyes.

"Have you met Alexander?"

"He was with me this time," he offered in a tone that made her look at him questioningly.

"He left Emily and the baby alone to go to France?"

"It was necessary." He shrugged his shoulders, the same puzzling emotion glinting in his golden eyes. Christine furrowed her brows. Alexander traveled a lot, but for him to have left his wife and their nine-month-old daughter to go to France…there was something very serious going on.

"How long did you stay?"

"About a month, no more…"

Christine looked at him, trying to find his eyes under the fedora, but the brim concealed them. Erik was hiding something!

"How is he? Are things between him and Emily any better?" Christine's experience of a loveless marriage left her little space for hope, no matter the good intentions.

"I can't imagine myself even trying to guess what is going on between them. It is hard enough to hear Alex calling me 'matchmaker.'" Erik's mouth pulled a grimace of disgust that made Christine laugh. This time she found his eyes. It was so easy for him to change her mood, make her laugh, or make her cry. There were times she felt like a piece of clay in his hands. Did love work that way for everyone?

"Since you've been out of England, you haven't seen this," she offered, retrieving a leather-bound book with creamy white pages from inside her cloak.

"'_Love Songs'_…composed by Erik Rochelle!" Erik read the title, dumbfounded.  
It was good to know she could still surprise him.

"Erik Rochelle is dead now. A little publicity can't hurt him. On the contrary! The tragic story of the composer will make your death even more believable."

"Where did you find these?"

"Emily had them stashed in her trunk. She felt it was a pity for these songs to become ashes, and I couldn't have agreed with her more! I took them to a publisher in London. It was a lot easier than anticipated…" she muttered in a serious tone, smiling at him. He was speechless.

Christine extended her hands, offering him the book. He kept looking at it as if it would come to life and bite him. After a while, Erik cupped both her hands with his palms, letting the touch linger longer than necessary. His thumbs traced the delicate skin inside her wrists, making her shiver.

"I haven't enjoyed a decent cup of tea since we parted." Such simple words, a small, trivial complaint, his husky voice. The reason life was still worthwhile.

She squeezed his cold hand before she left the book in his grasp.

"I will never forgive him, you know—" She wanted to say more, but her throat tightened up.

"I think he knows," Erik offered with a sad smile. He knew she was referring to Alexander and his idea to present Erik as being dead.

"At least not until we are reunited." She raised her chin stubbornly.

"He did what he thought best at the time. He had recognized one of Duval's men among the crowd in the Twin House—the one trailing him all the way to Winchester. And we had no idea where François was at the time—"

"He has explained it to me many times! I admire him for persuading Dr. McKinnan to verify our story. I know he thought it would be safer for you to heal this way—I would be safer, Emily, too…and we did gain some time. He's probably right, and I should be thankful… that doesn't change what I felt when I saw you on that bed." She stifled a sob at the image. "When I touched your cold hand—"

She shuddered at the memory. Erik had lost so much blood that the warm hands she had been used to had turned cold again. Ice cold as they were now, he was standing before her, strong and healthy. Even the doctor hadn't known Erik's chances at that critical moment. She wouldn't wish that moment, that feeling, on even her worst enemy.

"_I _would never do that to you, Christine... I hope someday you'll forgive me, too." His voice was hoarse, sad. "For losing faith…for not having enough faith in us."

She raised her trembling fingers to his lips to silence him, smiling at his gloomy expression. Her fingers traced his frown, pressing the deep line. No point in wasting their precious time together. They both took the extra steps to find shelter behind a tall monument made of white marble.

"It is over, Christine. We are free."

The words she had been waiting to hear were finally there, floating in the air between them. He couldn't take them back.

Christine knew what they meant. François Duval was dead. Everyone who had taken part in that scheme and might have continued pursuing it was dead. Even those of Pineaut's men who had been working for Duval were dead.

Christine looked at the graves all around them, thought of all the dead people and, without knowing why or how, guiltily felt safe.

Erik was staring gloomily at the changing expressions on her face. Did he think she was disappointed? Did he think she would lecture him?

"It seems I'll have to forgive Alex sooner than I thought," she offered, smiling, to remove the dark shadow from his eyes.

"Do you realize what this means?" His eyes burned her. "What I've done?" He had grasped her by the shoulders. Christine was almost certain he didn't realize it. What was he asking her? What did he think? That after everything they'd been through, she would leave him? Why? Because he had protected her and everything they had, everything they'd been robbed of?

"I won't mourn François Duval, if that is what you are asking me about." Her voice sounded harsh to her own ears.

His pained expression stung her. Erik held himself responsible for her losing her "innocent way of thinking." Christine called the change _maturity_. She had said her farewells to naiveté years ago. She had grown out of the fairytales her father had once told her when she realized that the most monstrous beasts lived within, in the heart, tainting the soul, with no ugly visage to warn the innocent. Good, beautiful people with noble intentions had hurt her far more than any hideous, evil creature ever could.

"Does this mean we are safe?" She looked at the anxious face of the man she called her husband, her eyes clear of animosity and hatred. She only cared for their future. She even managed a genuine smile.

"In this kind of situation, there is no way to be absolutely certain. That's why we will leave England. New names, new country…your choice this time, Madame Rochelle. What is your desire? France, Italy, Sweden…Russia? Just name it!"

Her heart clenched at hearing France mentioned. Christine remembered Raoul and his threat. There was no way she could persuade Erik that Raoul had been gravely serious. He hadn't been there, he hadn't heard him. He hadn't seen Philippe's stubbornness in his posture. Furthermore, Christine was afraid any mention of it might even awaken the competitive side of Erik's nature. There was no way she would pick France.

"Do I have to choose now? Maybe we should ask James, too—"

"The sooner you decide, the sooner this ring will find its missing match." He showed her the band on his little finger. "I've been told husbands do not wear wedding rings."

"Who told you that? Alex? I will laugh when Emily makes him wear one. Why should only women show they're married? Are we some kind of slaves?"

"You are the last woman in the world who should be permitted to complain about slavery. Alex had said you had me wrapped around your little finger, and I laughed at him. I was that ignorant!"

"Oh_, that's_ what he said! Then I surely won't forgive him! Or if I do, I won't tell him so," Christine said in mock anger. "No matter his good intentions, he used my shock to persuade that crowd." Despite her light tone, she believed there was a certain amount of truth in that assumption. Christine shook the thought away. When was the last time she had felt so light-hearted? Why shouldn't she allow herself to enjoy the feeling?  
"No matter what he claims, his actions showed the little faith he had in my acting abilities, and _that _I cannot forgive!" She raised her chin defiantly, a glint of mischief sparkling in her eyes.

"He doesn't know you as I do, Madame Rochelle."

"That is to be expected, Monsieur Rochelle…of course, you do realize that people change! Even tastes change. Perhaps your tastes have changed over the months." Christine raised a perfect brow challengingly. The golden eyes gleamed playfully under the fedora. "Or perhaps _mine _have…" she added after a while for more effect.

His palm slid around her waist. His firm grip spoke of passion, possession, love, and repressed frustration.

"If someone had told me I'd hold my wife in the middle of a graveyard, standing before my own grave…" He sighed, his breath tickling her neck.  
"I've missed a warm bed so much… homemade food. Maybe I should pay my wife a visit tonight to check whether both our tastes are still the same." He stood at his full height, towering over her.

"No, Erik! That is dangerous!" Christine exclaimed, looking at him anxiously. "This is not the remote Red Door Cottage. Mrs. Cross is practically sharing our back yard." There was no room for risk—not when they were so close!  
Still, her heart fluttered as she thought of the possibility. No disgrace over her mediocre stew could shake the thrill of having Erik in her bed that night. The wedding night she had dreamt about flashed before her eyes. Despite the wind and the cold, her cheeks grew hot.

"What is the point in starting a new life if your affections have changed?" he asked in a mock-challenging tone.

"Please, Erik! She's so nosy and loves to gossip… you'll be seen!"  
Could he hear her racing heartbeat? She swallowed, feeling her throat tightening up, not from worry this time.

Erik lowered his head until his cold lips were almost touching her ear. She could feel the smile in his deep, husky voice.

"Now, _wife_, I think it is _you _who are showing very little faith in my abilities!"

THE END

The poem:_  
O my Luve's like a red, red rose  
That's newly sprung in June:  
O my Luve's like the melodie  
That's sweetly play'd in tune._

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,  
So deep in luve am I:  
And I will luve thee still, my dear,  
Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,  
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;  
I will luve thee still, my dear,  
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve  
And fare thee weel, a while!  
And I will come again, my Luve,  
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

_Robert Burns_

* * *

You should have faith in Erik, and in Alex's "Deus ex machina" role ;-)

I can't blame you, but if you knew me you'd know I could never kill Erik.

If you liked this story, please "stay tuned".

There is a modern-time short story coming up in a few weeks, and somewhere in the cyber-world lurks

an original story written by the dynamic duo formed with Chapucera.

No, it has nothing to do with POTO, but everyone who seeks some of the basic themes of the story will be satisfied. It's hard to escape Erik…

I hope life treats you well!

Hugs, Ink


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